


In Your Atmosphere (Beatles/Paul McCartney Fan Fiction)

by KTLane



Category: Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: 1963, 1964, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-05-27 18:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 183,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6295654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KTLane/pseuds/KTLane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Your Atmosphere<br/> </p><p>“I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs.”<br/>― Zelda Fitzgerald</p><p>©KTLane</p><p>https://www.wattpad.com/user/kiwi747</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue

[ ](https://postimg.org/image/4oza70m8i3/)

 

 

 

September 1965

Marisol sits cross-legged on the floor of the living room of her sister Margo’s new home in Mill Valley, California. On the black and white television, a smiling, tuxedoed illusionist has just conjured his tenth dove out of thin air. The camera switches to Ed Sullivan, who promises he’ll be back with the Beatles after a word from Pillsbury. Marisol pushes her blonde fringe of bangs to one side and settles her three-month-old dark-haired daughter onto her lap with a warm bottle of milk.

Nine months have passed since she last saw any of the Beatles. She’s tried not to follow their careers, but since she doesn't live in an igloo at the top of the earth she can’t help but be aware of the major bullet points of their lives.

On the day Marisol’s daughter Melody was born, it was announced that Queen Elizabeth had included the Beatles in the birthday honors list, naming them as members of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. Quite an accomplishment for a group of young lads in their twenties from the northern provinces.

When Melody turned two months old, the Beatles were 3,000 miles away, performing in front of 56,000 fans at Shea Stadium, the largest outdoor concert in history. Paul’s sweaty, glowing face and giddy grin had been all over the news for at least a week afterwards.

A fortnight later, the band spent a week in Los Angeles looking for a bit of rest and relaxation. According to Marisol’s friend Donna, dozens of Beverly Hills brats hired helicopters to continually buzz the mansion where the Beatles were staying so they could take pictures of them sunbathing by the pool. The Beatles hid inside the mansion or underneath large umbrellas while helicopters hovered above. So much for peace and quiet.

Tonight, on Melody’s three month birthday, the Beatles are appearing on the Ed Sullivan show. Nineteen months ago Marisol watched them perform for the same television show, live in Miami Beach. Nineteen months. In some ways it feels like she’s aged ten years since then.

The television commercials end and Ed Sullivan is back on the screen. To a chorus of screams, the television host begins calling out the names of all four individual band members. Marisol's heart jumps as she hears his name and suddenly there he is. Paul. Shaking hands with the announcer, smiling at the screaming audience, strapping on his Hofner bass. Looking even more beautiful than she remembers. His straight, glossy dark hair is a bit longer, swept forward over his eyebrows and slightly to one side. In an expensively tailored black three piece suit and Cuban heeled boots he looks tall and fit, his face tanned and healthy. He looks bigger to her, more filled out, as if he’s grown from a skinny boy into his man’s body in just under a year. He acknowledges the crowd once more with a small flirty wave before nodding at his band mates and launching into their latest number one hit.

Seeing them on this stage takes her back to the first time Paul appeared on American television only a year and a half ago, how excited and happy he'd looked. Since then he and his band have conquered the American charts and finished two very successful world tours. Gone now is the skinny lad with the boyish, eager to please grins and bouncy dance moves. He looks comfortable in his own skin, sexier, more controlled. He moves confidently on stage, calm and sure of himself. Yet there is a new weight to his expression, a world weary cast to those downward sloping eyes.

She watches him lean in to share the microphone with John, their faces inches apart. She nearly groans, flattened by the sight of him and what he still does to her pulse rate. John and Paul exchange a smug little smile before Paul’s attention returns to the audience. It looks like someone in the crowd has caught his eye. His gaze continues to lock onto a spot on the balcony to his left.

 

  
“How’s it going?" Marisol’s older sister Margo drops down beside her and gives her knee a squeeze.

“Good, I guess." Marisol lets out a sigh. "The girls in bed?"

"They're worn out from the first week of Kindergarten." Margo regards the television for a moment, then shakes her head. "What a fucking great band they are."

"I know. The chemistry is amazing. Four best mates who have been playing together for eight years. They make it look effortless.”

The song ends and the camera zooms to Paul’s face, and he seems to lose focus while introducing the next song. His attention is still fixed on someone in the audience, to his left and high in the crowd. It takes John yelling “Heyyyyy!” at the crowd to startle Paul into finishing the introduction, and Ringo’s drums launch them into a loud, bluesy rock song in the style of Little Richard.

   

Margo laughs suddenly. "Did you see that girl in the audience? She could be your twin. I was wondering who Paul was focusing on. He’s been making eyes at someone through the whole song.”

The camera pans again to the second floor balcony where a slim blonde grips the railing, violently shaking her messy hair, having the time of her life, hamming it up for the television camera and screaming 'JOHN! JOHN!'

  
"Ha! I can't see anything but hair and a really big mouth. Of course he's staring at her, she's acting even more insane than everyone else."

“She looks just like you, Mar. I know John’s blind as a bat without his glasses, but she sure has Paul’s attention.”

The song ends to enormous applause and screams and the theater darkens. The lead guitarist, George, steps to the microphone. "And now we'd like to carry on by doing something we've never done before, with a song from our new LP in England featuring only Paul, and the song is called Yesterday." As the lights come up, Paul is alone onstage with an acoustic guitar. His lips stretch in a brief grimace and he rolls his shoulders slightly before beginning to strum the guitar. Marisol notices a light sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

He's nervous without the band behind him, she realizes as he begins to sing. By himself under the spotlight, he looks as alone and vulnerable to her as a baby seal on an ice floe.

 

 

_Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though they're here to stay, Oh I believe in yesterday..._

The melody climbs and tumbles like a feather on a breeze, reflective and melancholy, and suddenly so familiar to her...

Marisol remembers the morning over a year ago when Paul propped an acoustic guitar on his knee and played through a beautiful melodic ballad that had come to him in his sleep. He had climbed out of bed and sat down at the piano and found the right keys and accompanying chords even before he was fully conscious. The melody was so beautiful he was sure he had nicked it from some other song he couldn’t recall in his conscious mind. But as he played it for Marisol and other friends and professional acquaintances, singing la-la-la on the melody in place of words, no one could recognize this song as anything other than his original creation. Yet the right words wouldn’t come.

She suddenly recalls the package that arrived from England a few weeks ago, a 45 rpm record with a note "I found the words. Please call me” followed by a telephone number and an address on Cavendish Avenue, St. John’s Wood, London. Without playing the record, Marisol had merely added it to the suitcase full of Paul memorabilia she couldn’t bear to look at.

Marisol notices she’s been holding her breath and exhales slowly, captivated by the haunting melody and plainspoken description of heartbreak as Paul continues to sing.

 _Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be,_  
_There’s a shadow hanging over me,_  
_oh I believe in yesterday._  
_Why she had to go, I don’t know, she wouldn’t say_  
_I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday._

Yesterday. That was it. The word described the melody perfectly. And the rest of the verse told of a man reflecting on his emotional isolation. Life and love had once seemed so easy, but something had happened he couldn’t take back, and everything changed. It was a tale of a shattered love affair.

“He found the words,” Marisol whispers.

She feels Melody squirm and pull away from the bottle and realizes she's been gripping her daughter too tightly. She loosens her hold and looks down. Melody's big brown eyes are blinking up at the television set. Other than her bright eyes tracking the movements on the screen, her tiny body is completely still, seemingly mesmerized by the singer and the haunting melody.

Marisol kisses the top of her daughter's soft dark hair. "I know sweetie. I can't stop looking at him either."

Margo regards her younger sister somberly. "When are you going to tell him?"

Marisol chews the inside of her cheek. "I'm working on it." (If working on it means picking up the phone once a month, waiting for a dial tone and slamming it down again with her heart pounding.)

She knows she has to tell him, the sooner the better. Melody’s father deserves to know he has a perfect daughter, and even though Melody has a huge family of people who adore her, no one can take the place of a father in her life. She has to tell him, for her daughter’s sake, and he can decide what sort of relationship he wants with her. _With them._

The song ends and Paul steps back from the microphone with a tight smile and a small bow. His performance, with acoustic guitar and pre-recorded strings, was pitch-perfect--sweet, stoic, heartbroken.

"He nailed it," Marisol whispers with a relieved sigh. Tears have sprung to her lower lids and she wipes at them hurriedly with the back of one hand. "Despite the roller coaster ride the last two years has been, Gogo, do you know I am still so terribly proud of him?"

Her sister leans close and rests her head on Marisol's shoulder. "And I am proud of YOU. Has it really been two years? Feels like only yesterday."

Marisol glances down at her perfect daughter and gathers her closer. "We don't believe in yesterday, do we Melody? We believe in tomorrow."

But as she watches Paul switch to his bass guitar and announce the next song, her mind goes back to the first time she saw him. No matter how often she looks back on that magical afternoon it is always with the same question: what if she'd been ten minutes later arriving at Mrs. A’s house? Ten minutes would have made all the difference. There are those critical junctures in life, when a seemingly trivial decision radically alters the course of our lives. It takes only a second really, and everything changes.

 


	2. I've Just Seen A Face

No matter how often Marisol looked back on that pivotal afternoon in September 1963 it was always with the same questions: what if she'd stayed home? Or what if she'd arrived a mere twenty minutes later that first morning in England? There are those critical junctures in life, when a seemingly trivial action radically alters the course of your life. It takes only a second really, and everything changes.

 

* * * * *

 

 _Had it been another day,_  
_I might’ve looked the other way_  
_and I’d have never been aware_  
_But as it is I’ll dream of her tonight_

 

"Since it's Sunday and it's stopped raining, why don’t we make pumpkin bread for tea and take some to the neighbors?” Grandma Bellamy believed in getting an early start, even on Marisol's first morning in Sussex, and by “we” she meant her granddaughter.

Marisol stretched her arms over her head and swallowed a yawn, squinting from the shaft of sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. "You know it's still Saturday in California, Grandma.”

Grandma Bellamy pressed a well-thumbed recipe book into Marisol’s hands. "Jet lag hates fresh air and exercise, love, it's the only thing for it.”

Within an hour the kitchen was fragrant with pumpkin and nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves. Marisol sat at the mahogany kitchen table, skimming through the Steinbeck travelogue her father had given her for the 5,000 mile journey across a continent and an ocean from Northern California to Southern England. She'd spent most of the flight with the book closed on her lap, turned to the window with her head pressed against the fuselage so the businessman next to her wouldn't notice her eyes brimming with tears.

"Your troubles won't follow you if you don't let them." Her father had turned philosophic on the drive from Sonoma to the San Francisco airport. "And when you return, you won't come back to the same old thing. Because you will have changed. Your perceptions will have changed. The river will be flowing while you're gone and you won't come back to the same river.”

"I love you, Dad. I'll miss you," she'd said, holding back tears as she waited to board the Pan Am 707 to New York. He'd slapped her on the back so hard her bones rattled and said, "You're a Hemingway, you're tough." Sometimes it felt like her father should have had only sons.

Pushing the Steinbeck aside, Marisol rested her forehead on her crossed arms and closed her eyes, still groggy from passing through eight time zones. When her head was clearer, she would phone her friend Angela so they could meet for lunch and a little shopping on Regent Street. And her twin nieces had been in London all summer. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on them.

Alone with her thoughts and the sound of her breath in the private cocoon her arms made, Marisol didn’t realize her grandmother had come back in the kitchen until she felt the hand rubbing a comforting circle between her shoulder blades. She straightened. “Oh. I almost dozed off again.”

"I'm so happy you're here, Duckie. The twins have gotten so big! Lucy is as precocious as ever, like her mother, and Sophie is tender-hearted like you were at that age." Grandma handed her a small framed photograph. "This was last month, mind you. They change so fast.”

Marisol’s reed-thin older sister Margo and her athletic-looking husband Nick were posed at the beach, each holding one of the girls. Everyone squinting into the sun with wind-tousled hair.

"You look so much like your sister in this photo, don't you think?”

They had the same nose, she and Margo. The same little upturn at the end. The same eyes, cornflower blue. The same full lips. But that was where the resemblance ended, at least as far as she was concerned. Where her sister was tall and delicate, Marisol was shorter and curved. They were both blonde and fair, but Margo's hair was sleek and straight while hers was thick and wavy and unruly. You get that from your father's side, everyone said. She had her father's cheekbones. And, sometimes, her father's melancholy.

"I can't wait to see them," Marisol said. "I've missed you, Grandma. We had such good summers here.”

Grandma opened the French door to the garden. Her black and white border collies, Lily and Ramsay, bounded inside and over to Marisol, nudging her with wet noses. "That reminds me. I’m making a mosaic table and I need your help with the design.”

"Really? What’s it made of?”

"Tiles, sea glass, bits of shells. We'll go to the shore tomorrow and see what the tide brings in." She moved to the oven and cracked the door. "All ready. When it cools we'll wrap a loaf for you to take to Mrs. A for her tea. You don’t mind, do you love? Off you go!”

  
   
* * * * *

 

Fifteen minutes later Marisol strolled down the quiet lane cradling a loaf of pumpkin bread wrapped in a towel. The air smelled of freshly mowed grass and the honeysuckle that grew on the other side of an ancient stone wall. A beautiful late summer day, the sky a cloudless blue. A light breeze ruffled her hair and yellow cotton sleeveless dress.

The drone of a small propeller airplane made her look up to see a dozen black swifts diving for flying insects. She watched them climb south and to the sea, gradually disappearing from view.

An older passenger van was parked haphazardly next to the high hedge in front of Mrs. A’s house. As Marisol drew closer she spotted messages written all over the sides and windows. The van was nearly covered with words, numbers and hearts, in shades of red and coral and pink.

Fascinated, she began to read to herself: ‘I love you Johnny!’ ‘Ringo—Quit Maureen and call Esme!’ ‘Paul very imp. call me JU 2 3651’ ‘Bournemouth loves you’ and ‘Slow Down Neil!’

Neil! That was a name she recognized. Mrs. A’s grandson. They had played together every summer until he got too old to spend so much time in the country with his grandparents. This beat up van covered in love notes was Neil’s?

She circled the van, pausing to read the bright pink writing covering the rear windows. She read ‘We Love You Yeah Yeah Yeah!’ and shook her head in bewilderment. ‘George loves Diana 4ever’ was scrawled inside a heart. She lifted a finger to touch the top of the deep red heart. Lipstick?

Just then she caught the briefest reflection of someone behind her. Without warning a hand closed over her left shoulder and a low, soft voice rumbled in her ear. “I…love…Paul McCartney. M-C-C-A—”

“Holy sh…” She whirled around and stumbled against the bumper of the van, almost dropping the pumpkin bread. A tall, slender young man in tight jeans and a faded black T-shirt held her by the shoulder. It was definitely not Neil. His hand slid down her arm to steady her.

“You scared the begeezus out of me!” Fueled by an adrenaline rush, her senses were on full alert as she stared up at him. Dark, shining hair, unfashionably long.  A day’s growth of stubble on his jaw. Wide brown eyes calmly assessing her. Warm fingers wrapped around her bare arm. He smelled like someone just blew a candle out, mixed with clean cotton and a tinge of sweat. Full lips twisted in what looked like more of a smirk than a smile.

“What are you thinking to write, love? Something romantic like…’I’m yours forever?’ Or are you the more mysterious type…like…’meet me in the third booth at the coffee shop after the show’?” He spoke with a lyrical accent she couldn’t quite place. “

“Excuse me?”  
His gaze fell to her lips. "Or did you run out of...lipstick?"

“I’m not…did you think I’m…”

A brief flicker toward the van and his gaze settled on her face. "Look love, I'll sign for you or whatever, but it's crap getting lipstick off the windows so if you wouldn't mind just telling me what it is you wanted to say, there’s a good girl.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t want to say anything.” She stepped back and shook off his arm, her heart still racing. She didn't bother to keep the annoyance from her voice. “I nearly dropped the pumpkin bread.”

He suddenly leaned around the van, peering up and down the lane. “Did you walk here? How did you even find me?” He glanced back at her, finally noticing the pumpkin bread. “Oh thanks love, I’ll have it then, ta,” he said, reaching out.

She hugged the loaf of bread tighter. "Not so fast, buddy. It’s not for you.” Who was this guy? He looked a few years older than she was, probably Neil’s age. He would be attractive if his hair wasn’t so long and he didn’t have that arrogant sneer on his face. Maybe Mrs. A had hired a gardener?

He crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels as he scrutinized her. “Is it for one of the others then, love? Because I’m the only one here.”

Marisol looked pointedly at Mrs. A’s dark green Ford Anglia parked in the courtyard with the trunk open. “You’re clearly not.” She made an attempt to sidestep him and he stopped her by circling his fingers around her wrist. She stared at his hand on her arm, then at his face. "Are you kidding me?"

His perfectly arched dark eyebrows were knit in a frown. “How did you find us, any road?”

She attempted to shrug his hand away but he held her fast, waiting for an answer. This was ridiculous. “Look, Mr. Long Hair. I don’t know what your deal is, but my grandmother just phoned Mrs. Aspinall so I know she's home, and I don’t know how you do things here but where I’m from you can't just sneak up and grab strangers like some lunatic--"

As he listened his expression underwent a complete transformation, from wary to baffled to amused, and he suddenly threw back his head and laughed.

She tilted her head, staring at him. "Did I say something funny?"

“American, are you?” he asked, still chuckling.

“That I am.”

He dropped her wrist and ran a hand through his hair. She watched it fall perfectly back into place across his forehead. “Cor. It's been a day,” he muttered to himself.

"So. I'll just let myself in."

“Aye. Of course. Please.” He made a broad gesture toward the house, and grinned. And for the second time she almost dropped the pumpkin bread.

“Marisol Hemingway! Cor, how long has it been!”

Her head jerked up at the sound of a voice she knew instantly. An older version of her childhood friend was standing in the doorway of his grandmother's home, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and a toothy grin. "Neil! You ARE here!”

Halfway across the courtyard, Neil lifted her off her feet in a bear hug. The best hug from a man she’d had in a long summer of no man hugs.

"I brought you some smashed pumpkin bread," Marisol said.

"Some what?"

He set her down and she offered the slightly battered loaf of bread. “From my Gram.”

“Oh. Gear. She rang and said you were on your way. It’s been yonks!”

"Years and years,” Marisol agreed. “You got so tall!”

He held her at arm’s length. “Aye, and you are so…well, let’s just say I won't be calling you Flatsy Patsy ever again.”

Marisol gave him a shove. "Don't remind me. I chased you all the way back here when you called me that.”

Neil's blue eyes sparkled. “Should've let you catch me. How’s your sister?”

“Oh, she’s great. Married three years now.”

“Yes, I heard the unfortunate news. Broke my heart.” He glanced over her shoulder. "So you've met Paul?”

Marisol looked back toward the Anglia. The scruffy guy, who was apparently Neil’s friend, was now sitting on the edge of the open trunk, long legs crossed at the ankles, watching with undisguised interest.

“You could say that."

"Great! I'll tell Grandma you're here." Neil disappeared inside the house with the pumpkin bread.

She watched him go with a little smile. Who would've thought she'd run into Neil on her first morning in England? All grown up and good looking. His friend wasn't bad either, although he seemed a little tense about that crappy van. When she turned around, Neil's friend was still staring. Only now he was doing it from about a foot and a half away. “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” she said, throwing a hand over her heart. “You have got to stop doing that.”

“Let’s have another go,” he said, his hand extended. “I’m Paul.”

She looked at his hand and then shook it. It was a good hand, much larger than hers, not too rough, not too smooth and not sweaty. “Marisol.”

“Marisol," he repeated. He kept her hand in his while his gaze moved over her face as if he were trying to memorize her. “Lovely name."

"Why do you keep watching me?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Why would I not watch you?"

Marisol felt her cheeks warm. Now that he was no longer smirking, she realized he was genuinely beautiful, with his long dark lashes, straight nose and full lips curving into a tiny smile. His eyes were a rich amber color with flecks of gold, and his long hair was styled forward in a fringe. She'd seen that hairstyle when she’d visited her brother in Paris last summer, but no one in England looked that way. Or in America for that matter. Maybe he'd studied in France.

He still held her hand. She tried experimentally to pull it free but he wouldn't release her.

"Sorry I was sort of on edge before. Things got a bit fraught up in London this morning.” His accent made his words almost indecipherable to her ears, or maybe she was distracted by watching his lips moving over the words.

"A bit fraught?”

"Aye. You could say we've had a rather avant-garde morning with the mobs and the photographers and the police and the bit with the geese.”

He glanced at the house, then back at her, and grinned.

And she felt like she might need a moment.

If she thought he was pretty before, it was nothing compared to the way his face changed when he grinned. It was like a light switched on behind his eyes, every trace of arrogance disappeared. His sharp features softened, his eyes crinkling the tiniest bit at the corners. That smile. It made her want to smile back.

"Marisol dear, what a lovely surprise!" At the sound of Mrs. Aspinall's voice, Paul let go of her hand and stepped back.

Half dazed, she turned and forced herself to walk normally across the courtyard and into a warm hug. Mrs. Aspinall had known Marisol's family since before she was born. “It’s so good to see you.”

Mrs. Aspinall framed Marisol’s cheeks with her hands. “You look so much like your mother when she was your age, just before your father took one look at her and whisked her away.”

Neil was back, followed by two young girls. "Remember Lizzie? And her friend Molly.”

Marisol sized up the blue-eyed brunette grinning up at her. “You can't be Lizzie! You were knee high to a grasshopper when I saw you last!”

"I'm almost eleven." Lizzie said, leaning in for a hug.

"A young lady of almost eleven is big enough to help the boys pack the rest of the lunch." Mrs. Aspinall turned back to Marisol. “You must come to the beach with us.”

“Oh...I wish I could, but I just got here and I don't know what Grandma wants to do…"

“I'll ring her straightaway. Neil is only here for the afternoon, and you simply must join us.” Mrs. Aspinall was back inside the house before Marisol could think of a reply.

“You must come." The low voice next to her ear sent a shiver down her spine. He’d done it again. She turned to see Paul smiling down at her. “It’ll be fun.”

“Oh…well, the thing is I only just…” She trailed off, distracted by the sight of Neil stopping beside Paul, holding out his hand, palm up, an impatient look on his face.

“The keys, Macca.”

With his eyes never leaving Marisol, Paul slid his fingers into a front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a set of keys, dropping them into Neil's hand. “Can you tell me, Nelly, why it’s taken you all these years to introduce me to my future wife?”

Neil rolled his eyes and strode away.

Your what? Marisol started to say, then closed her mouth again as Lizzie’s friend Molly, a willowy girl with light grey eyes and strawberry blonde hair, bounced between them and grinned up at Paul. "I want to sit by you.”

“Is that so? You don’t get carsick, do you?”

Molly giggled. “No.”

Paul swung his attention back to Marisol as Molly skipped away. “Where were we?”

Marisol crossed her arms across her chest and cocked her head. “Does that line ever work for you?”

She watched him cock his head back at her, his brow furrowed. Apparently Neil’s scruffy/flirty friend had the acting skills to look suitably confused.

“What line?”

“The one about your future wife.”

“Oh.” His smile was angelic. “Why don’t you come to the beach with me and find out?”

Marisol sighed and looked away, biting her lower lip against a sharp reply. She didn’t really have the energy for flirting today. Or any day. What she needed most right now was a nap.

“Where in the States are you from?” he asked amiably.

“California,” Marisol said, lifting her hair with one hand and fanning her neck with the other. She should have brought a rubber band to pull her hair up. It hadn’t seemed nearly so warm when she’d left the house.

“Ah. I could’ve guessed. You have the whole California thing going on with the long blond hair and blue eyes—“ His hand described a circle in front of her as he gestured “—and what is clearly a bikini body under that dress. I look at you and I think California.”

He stopped, scratched his jaw, and added softly, “Actually I look at you and I think—“

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by Molly bouncing up and down on her toes in front of them again. “My mum says I can go to a show next year when I’m twelve.”

Paul regarded the girl. “You’re a persistent little red-headed thing, aren’t you?”

“Girls, get in the car,” Neil called.

Paul held open the door to the sedan while Molly and Lizzie climbed in. He flashed another grin at Marisol. “After you, my bride.”

She took a step back, feeling a little woozy. It had to be the jet lag. The front door closed behind her, making her jump a little.

"It's all settled, dear. I told your grandmother we'd have you home by tea.” Mrs. Aspinall handed a large picnic basket to Neil, who settled it in the trunk between a metal cooler and a stack of blankets.

A light breeze cooled her neck and she let her hair fall to her shoulders. This day was turning out to be nothing like Marisol had expected when her feet hit the floor of her grandmother’s spare bedroom with the tiny pink roses on the wallpaper and the white painted furniture. She’d expected to wander through the day like a robot as she’d done most of the summer, trying to seem cheerful while her grandmother distracted her with baking and art projects.

Mrs. Aspinall gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. The girls were giggling and jostling for position on the back seat. Paul stood waiting by the open car door, looking like a lapsed choir boy. Southern England in late summer was turning out to be a lot more interesting than she could have imagined. A whole new river of people and sights and experiences. Nothing to do but dive in.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. I'll Follow the Sun

Neil got behind the wheel of the Anglia with his grandmother beside him, and Marisol and Paul sat in the back with the girls between them. Minutes later they drove through the small village with its one of everything: one bank, one chemist, one grocer, one school, one newsagent. After passing the old stone church they turned onto a narrow tree-shrouded lane and drove south toward the sea.

Molly, who'd finagled the seat next to Paul, pulled a plastic doll out of the beach bag at her feet and showed it to him. "Do you want to have a go?"

"No, I do not want to have a go."

Molly giggled. "It's a Little Miss Echo."

"A Little Miss What?"

Neil's eyes darted to the rear view mirror. "That doll has a little phonograph record inside it, Macca, it records over and over."

"Whaaat? Let me see that."

Paul’s head was close to Molly's as she turned the doll's switch to the left. “I want a blue-eyed blonde a-hangin’ on my arm,” he sang at the doll, in a low pitched, playful Elvis style. ”to have, ah to hold, ah tonight.”

Molly and Lizzie squealed with delight and turned the doll's switch back to the right. “To-have-a-to-hold-a-tonight,” the doll repeated back, slightly higher and faster.

The girls doubled over laughing, playing the recording again. Marisol didn’t miss Neil’s slight eye roll and the shake of his head before he flicked his attention back to the road. Across the seat from her Paul glanced up and, when he saw she was watching, he winked.

”You," she mouthed at him over the heads of the giggling girls, "are such a flirt."

He cupped a hand to one ear. “I’m what? Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. I don't speak American."

Lizzie swiveled to face Marisol. "Is Paul your favorite Beatle?"

"My favorite what?"

"The Beatles," she said with a hint of impatience, “which one is your favorite?"

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, sweetie.”

"Liz, she's American. They don’t know about the Beatles yet.” Paul said.

Both girls gaped.

"Don't you have radio?" Lizzie asked.

“Beetles…are they some sort of Buddy Holly and the Crickets parody?" Marisol wondered aloud.

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “It's Beatles with an 'a'.” She turned to Molly. "Show her."

Molly rooted around in her beach bag and pulled out a tattered newsprint magazine. She handed it solemnly to Lizzie, who spread it open on Marisol's lap. “There. Beatles with an ‘a’.”

Marisol examined the black and white grainy photo of four twenty-something men in matching tailored suits and ties, all with come-hither stares and identical floppy hairstyles. The one with the boyish face and perfectly arched brows was sitting on the other side of the back seat from her. _The Beatles reach number 17 on the charts with Love Me Do, the caption read._

She glanced up to see Paul quietly watching her, one arm slung across the back of the seat. "Are you in a band?"

His eyes smiled. "Are you a detective?"

Ohh...this explained so much, Marisol thought, flicking her attention back to the magazine in her lap. The long hair, the over-confidence, the flirtatiousness, the van... She brought a hand to her mouth to keep from scoffing aloud. He had mistaken her for a lovestruck fan!

“When they shake their heads, it makes you want to faint,” Lizzie whispered.

“Are you serious?”

Lizzie nodded gravely. "So which one do you like best?" she asked again, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear and leaning closer to help her decide.

As the girl nuzzled against her, Marisol had a clear memory of dear little Lizzie as a flaxen haired, slightly chubby five year old shadowing her around her grandmother's garden. "Well, let's see..." She studied the photo. They were all quite attractive once you got used to the strange haircuts.

"I can't possibly choose,” she said finally. “Who is your favorite?"

Lizzie threw a glance over her shoulder at Paul, then beckoned for Marisol to lean in close. "Paul is the cute one," she whispered.

“I can’t argue with you there," Marisol whispered back, handing over the magazine.

Molly grinned up at Paul. “Ringo is my favorite!" she said, giggling.

Paul wrapped an arm around the girl’s neck and scrubbed his knuckles across her ginger hair, making her squeal. "Rubbish, I know you like me most."

He patiently entertained the girls’ idle chitchat as Marisol watched the English countryside unfolding outside her window. Neatly trimmed hedges partially hid cozy cottages and larger country homes set back from the road, and patchwork hills rose in the distance over sheep-coated fields. Hills that reminded her of home.

This was the first autumn of her life that she wouldn't be in Northern California when the first white wine grapes were ready, Marisol realized, the familiar ache of loss spreading through her. She had planned to study creative writing at the University of California in Davis, where her fiancé Dan would’ve begun his senior year in the viticulture program. After his graduation they had planned to return to Sonoma Valley where he would help manage her family's small vineyard and winery.

Their lives were planned, right down to the number of children (four) and the Australian Shepherd they would adopt and name Sydney. She would write children's books about Sydney. Dan would be renowned for his bold Bordeaux blends. They would vacation in Cinque Terre and stroll hand in hand through the vineyards overlooking the Ligurian Sea.

Then on a rainy night in early spring she'd been yanked from sleep by an insistent phone and the balance of her life changed. She'd grieved for Dan for months before calling her grandmother in gulping tears. “All I do is cry," she'd sobbed. "I think I need to see a psychiatrist."

Without missing a beat, Grandma Bellamy responded, "You don't need a therapist; you need a holiday."

Her mentality was: Don't wallow, even in the face of terrible tragedy. Grandma Bellamy had survived the London Blitz only to lose a son to scarlet fever. It was one of life's worst calamities, but she had demonstrated to the rest of the family that life must go on.

"A chapter in your life has closed," her grandmother had said. "Now it's time to see what’s behind the next door."

Before the tears on her cheeks had dried, Marisol was on the phone with a Pan Am agent. It made perfect sense. Margo had recently moved with her two-year-old twins to London to be close to their father, an Air Force pilot based in the UK. And Marisol's childhood friend Angela was a student at London University.

In Sonoma, every sight and smell and every song on the radio reminded her of Dan. In England she could help her sister with two lively toddlers and spend precious time with her grandmother and less time in her own head feeling sorry for herself.

Gradually the scenery turned more remote and wild, until Neil maneuvered the car into a parking area fronting a secluded stretch of beach. He drove to the end, angled the car in the last spot and looked over his shoulder. “All right, Macca?”

Paul scanned the deserted lot and the quiet beach in front of them. “Works for me.”

Marisol stepped out of the car. Sea and sand as far as the eye could see, with only a few sunbathers dotting this stretch of beach. The air smelled of brine, salt and seaweed. Over the sparkling expanse of water, seagulls cried and dove for fish.

On the other side of a golden dune they spread blankets and unpacked a picnic of Scotch eggs, Cornish pasties, slices of York ham and soft brie cheese with baguettes, pickles, strawberries, fresh shortcake and Cotswold honey, an assortment of sodas and Marisol’s pumpkin bread.

Over lunch they caught up on each other’s lives. Neil said he had been bored rigid in his accounting job, so he left over two years ago to work as road manager for Paul’s band. They were now based out of London but were on the road most of the time, playing at theaters throughout the UK and busy with radio shows, interviews and recording sessions. He regaled them with tales of life on the road with the Beatles, including the mob scene this morning when the van had to wait for a line of geese to cross the road. Neil had sped away and had been pulled over for running a red light.

“The copper asked for both our identification, then he asked for Paul's autograph while he was giving me a fine,” Neil finished.

The girls' sudden laughter startled the seagulls who were edging closer to the picnic.

“The Beatles are going to be on telly this week, isn’t that right, Paul?” Lizzie said.

His lips twisted. “Well, it’s only a couple of songs and a wee interview.”

Mrs. Aspinall patted Marisol’s knee. “Your grandmother tells me you’ve become quite the television star yourself, love.”

Marisol made a scoffing sound. “It was only local television, and ages ago. Margo and I volunteered at an animal shelter and we brought some of the dogs and cats to a local talk show to get them adopted.”

“Who’s Margo?” Paul asked.

“The gorgeous big sister,” Neil supplied helpfully.

Marisol bounced a soda cracker off Neil’s chest, startling him into returning her stare. “If by gorgeous you mean married,” she reminded him. He’d always had such an obvious crush on Margo.

“Two of them? I must be dreaming.” Paul smiled at her, a devastating smile and lingering look that made her blink away.

Lizzie scooted closer to Marisol and whispered in her ear. “I think Paul likes you.”

“I imagine he likes lots of ladies,” Marisol whispered back.

Mrs. Aspinall asked about her family, and Marisol talked of her brother Mark’s internship in Burgundy, and Margo raising twins while her husband was away on assignment for weeks at a time, and her parents’ struggle to find a manager for the family vineyard. With every word, she was keenly aware of Paul watching her with rapt attention, his gaze like something hot pressed to her cheek.

When they'd finished eating Neil took a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one out and offered the pack to Paul. They stood and smoked as they surveyed the calm sea.

Neil pointed toward the water. “There’s a seal, Liz.”

Lizzie reached for Marisol’s hand. “Come on then!”

Marisol slipped off her sandals and let herself be led by the hand. The golden sand was warm under her bare feet. They sprinted to the ocean’s edge and stopped, cool water lapping around their ankles.

She reached down and picked up a shell, studying it for a moment before trailing the girls as they skipped down the beach. Together they paused to admire a series of sand castles built by two young boys who raced to the edge of the sea and back with buckets of water while their parents watched from a blanket nearby.

Paul was suddenly beside her. "Did you invite all these people? I thought it would be just us.”

“Just us and your fan club.” Marisol watched the girls splashing in the surf ahead of them. “You're very good with them.”

He shrugged. “I envy people with kids. I want a whole houseful of my own someday.”

His arm brushed against hers as he reached for the shell she was holding and she felt the air sizzle between them. He was so close she could smell the cigarette he’d just smoked mixed with the salty air. She watched him examine the sharply pointed spiral shell, turning it over in his hand. He had beautiful hands, she noticed, with long, elegant fingers, nails short, fingertips hardened with callouses. A musician’s capable hands.

“My grandma is collecting shells for a tabletop she’s making.”

He nodded. “There’s a beach in Devon called Shell Beach. The gulf stream brings in shells all the way from the Caribbean.” He placed the shell in her palm. “We should go some time.” He smiled slowly. “Just the two of us.”

“What, no fan club?” she asked breathlessly, trying to contain the dizzying attraction racing through her.

“Just us,” he repeated.

They stared into each other’s eyes. Close enough to kiss. “You could wear your little California bikini," he said, his eyes curving in a smile. “If you fancy. No pressure.” With the sun shining on that gorgeous head of dark hair, she almost needed sunglasses to look at him.

A shrill whistle followed by Neil’s shout made her blink away. Neil stood at the water’s edge motioning for the girls to come back. After a few longing looks in Paul's direction, Lizzie and Molly reluctantly started back down the beach.

“Alone at last,” Paul said. “What shall we do?”

Marisol didn't meet his eyes, relieved that the tension between them had been broken. Her curiosity was kindled, that much she knew for sure. It had been a long time since an attractive man had given her such bold attention. After all, until the last few months she’d been wearing a diamond solitaire on her left hand. The ring she still wore on a gold chain tucked inside her dress next to her heart.

She pretended to be captivated by the azure sea, shading her eyes against the sparkling glare. “It’s so peaceful and beautiful. So that’s France over there?”

Paul didn’t bother looking. ”Alas, yes.”

Marisol's lips quirked up at that. Spoken like a true Englishman. She felt him scrutinizing her in that intense way of his. “Have you been to America?” she asked.

“I haven’t. What is it like, in California?”

“Well…in Northern California the coastline is more rugged than this. But we live inland, in a valley between two mountain ranges.”

“I would have taken you for a city girl.”

“We’re only forty-five miles from San Francisco actually.”

“Ah, San Francisco. I’ve heard it’s very nice. Good music scene.”

They began walking along the shore, stopping occasionally to pick up shells. The warm wind ruffled her hair and teased her dress around her thighs. A pair of sandpipers bobbed up and down along the water’s edge, fluttering away with agitated three-note calls as they approached.

“What sort of music do you listen to in your valley between two mountains in California? What was the last record you bought?” Paul asked.

“It was the Beach Boys, I think. Do you know them?”

Beside her Paul sang in a clear, falsetto voice. “Little surfer, little one, made my heart come all undone, do you love me, do you surfer girl?”

“You have a beautiful voice.”

“Ta.” He nodded, clearly used to hearing that sort of praise. “Who else do you like?”

“Let’s see…Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, Ray Charles, The Shirelles…”

“Ah, good choices. I like where this is headed.”

“What kind of music do you play?”

“Beat music, rock and roll, rhythm and blues. We pinch a bit from American soul artists, but we don’t sound like anyone else. You should hear our LP, it's well hip.”

“I’d love to.”

“With any luck we’ll play in America very soon.”

Marisol nodded. He certainly had big dreams, this one. “The music business is so difficult though. Do you have a Plan B?”

“No. There’s no reason to have a Plan B because it distracts from Plan A.”

He stopped walking and narrowed his eyes at a group of three teenage girls on the shoreline jostling each other and pointing their way. “We should start back.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the girls began to run toward them. “Are you Paul?” one of the girls asked breathlessly as they approached.

“Beatle Paul?” another girl clarified, panting a little.

“That’s right,” Paul said. “Everything all right, girls?”

The first two girls looked at each other and let out high-pitched, nervous giggles. The third girl looked like she was only seconds away from swooning.

“We saw you at Winter Gardens,” the first girl said. “You were wonderful.”

“Wonderful,” the second girl repeated, nodding her head. “If only we had our autograph books with us today…” her voice trailed off wistfully.

“Ta, girls. We’ll get back there soon. We’ll get to those autograph books next time.”

“Can I kiss you?” the first girl asked hopefully, taking a step closer.

Paul took a step back. “We really shouldn’t, you know,” he said to the girl. “You’ll only want to do it again, and then it becomes a thing.” He caught Marisol’s eye, and to her surprise, he looped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side.

The third girl in the background put a hand over her heart and groaned.

“Just one little kiss?” the first girl asked.

Paul looked down at Marisol. “We should get you back, love. We don’t want you to miss your…thing.”

“Oh…my thing,” Marisol said, puzzled and slightly out of breath. Here she was standing on a beach thousands of miles from home with a gorgeous stranger’s arm around her, and her hand settled comfortably on his waist, and why did it feel like the most natural thing in the world?

“Ta girls, see you next time,” Paul said, and he wheeled Marisol around and charged down the beach the way they’d come.

“Who are you?” Marisol asked with a laugh, stumbling a little as he dragged her along through the sand. “England’s answer to Elvis Presley?”

There were squeals and shrieks to rival a flock of seagulls behind them. Paul chanced a glance at the girls, and, apparently satisfied that they weren’t following, he let his arm fall from Marisol’s shoulders.

“Just another bloke with no Plan B,” he said, and winked at her.

Marisol looked down at the sand, watching their footsteps disappearing with the incoming tide. She hugged her own arms around herself and tried to reason why she felt a little bereft when Paul took his arm away. He was a complete stranger, a total flirt, and not her type at all. Imagine falling for a musician with girls begging him for kisses. A girl would have to be a masochist.

 

Lizzie and Molly joined them when they were halfway back, pointing to a spot where they’d seen seals bobbing up and down on the waves. Marisol watched the girls dancing in the sea foam, carefree and happy. Their joy was infectious. She rolled her shoulders, closing her eyes and tilting her face to the sun. This was the reason she’d come to England. An afternoon with people from her past who didn’t know about Dan and didn’t look at her with pity. A tranquil beach on a poky little island she’d loved since she was a girl. No memories of Dan here, only nostalgia for the blissful innocence of childhood.

 

On the way home, Mrs. Aspinall sat in the back of the car with Marisol and chatted about their families. Between them, Molly looked ready to nod off while Lizzie dozed with her head on her grandmother’s shoulder.

In the front seat Paul and Neil smoked endless cigarettes and murmured in low voices. Over the noise of the engine and wind, she caught fragments of their conversation. A guitar of John’s had gone missing. Mal felt terrible about it. Someone named Eppy insisted on a standard thirty minute set list and Paul missed the old days of longer sets, ad libbing and goofing about onstage. Paul wondered if they were selling out. Neil wondered about the electric supply in Sweden, would it blow out their amps?

"Turn it up, Neil!" Lizzie shouted, fully awake and bouncing up and down on the bench seat.

"My favorite Beatles song!” Molly squealed.

"Girls, please!" Mrs. Aspinall chided.

Neil turned the radio volume up, and the car was filled with music.

Marisol had never heard anything like it. Fast and loud, the guitars and drums were up front and yet the singers harmonized beautifully. Paul swiveled and watched her listening, his fingers drumming the rhythm on the back of his seat. It sounded like rock and roll and blues and something else fresh and new. When it was over she wanted more of it.

The girls were still bouncing up and down when Neil turned the volume down. “Released two weeks ago, and it’s already number one in the charts,” he said.

"What do you think, Mary Soul?” Paul asked.

“It’s very catchy. You have an American sound, I think, but original. I want to hear more of it.”

He stroked a sideburn thoughtfully. “Aye, we're always writing with the American market in mind. We could wipe them out, if we could just get a grip on them.”

 

Marisol’s grandmother was watering her lavender plants in the front garden when Neil pulled the car into the front drive. Her silvery gold hair was pulled up in a sophisticated chignon. Even in her casual white and navy pinstripe shirtdress, she radiated elegance and poise, her pale blue eyes sparkling with intelligence.

Paul climbed out of the car first and waved at her grandmother. By the time Marisol slipped on her sandals, he had opened her car door and offered his hand. As their eyes met he spoke in a low voice meant only for her. “I’m glad you came.” He looked about to say something else but Neil was making introductions and Paul crossed the courtyard to shake hands with her grandmother.

“Isn’t this weather grand?” Mrs. Bellamy asked.

Everyone agreed, and they all chatted for a few minutes until Neil mentioned he and Paul needed to be back in London. Neil gave Marisol a peck on the cheek and a “let’s keep in touch,” before ordering the girls back in the car and climbing in behind the wheel.

Marisol exchanged cheek kisses with Mrs. Aspinall and watched her join the girls in the back seat of the sedan. She looked up at Paul, wondering if she would see him again. Maybe her friend Angela had heard of this group of Beatles and would want to go to a show. "Will you be playing in London soon?" she asked.

"Oh, sure, we're all over Britain." He shrugged, noncommittal, then leaned toward her and stretched out his hand. “It was lovely meeting you, Mary Soul.” After a brief handshake he let go of her hand and reached for her grandmother’s. “Lovely meeting you, Mrs. Bellamy.”

He climbed back in the car beside Neil and drove off with a flirty wave. Marisol watched them disappear in a small cloud of dust. It was as if a carnival had come to town, bringing a heightened state of excitement, then leaving her standing in an empty field with discarded cotton candy cones, soda bottles and old ticket stubs, watching the circus train pull away.

She couldn’t help feeling vaguely disappointed that she would likely never see Paul again. When he'd focused his attention on her, the weight of her sadness shifted and she'd felt...what exactly? Desirable? Hopeful? Yet for all his chatting her up, he had simply shrugged off her question about the band playing in London. No doubt he had girls swooning for him all across England. She was just an afternoon distraction for him.

He'd been a distraction for her too, and it had been great catching up with Neil again. And that was the end of that, she told herself as she followed her grandmother into the house.


	4. Please Please Me

“That young man with Neil seemed nice.”

Her grandmother’s words caught Marisol gazing absent-mindedly into the back garden and thinking about that very young man. “He was interesting.”

Grandma Bellamy peered over the top of her emerald green cat eye glasses. “He could use a haircut and a shave though, don’t you think?”

“He’s a musician.”

“Well that explains it.” Grandma Bellamy nodded.

They were sitting on the back patio drinking freshly squeezed lemonade and sharing a bowl of popcorn while Marisol showed her grandmother the shells she’d collected at the beach. Lily was draped diagonally across her feet. Ramsay finished sniffing the shells, turned in circles a few times and dropped onto the tiled patio with a long groan.

Since Lily and Ramsay were puppies, Marisol and her older brother and sister had spent most of their childhood summers in this country home in Sussex. In the afternoons Grandma would tend to her garden as they ran barefoot through the jungle of flowers, shrubbery and fruit trees. All the time she was working, Grandma was either making up stories, playing a word game, or pretending to be a character in one of their made up dramas. It was a fairy garden to Marisol and her brother and sister, a beautiful, imaginary world where they could do, say or be anything they wanted for the summer. August signaled their return to Sonoma Valley for the grape harvest and the start of school and reality.

Marisol watched her grandmother sorting the green tiles they would use for the table’s edge. “The top of the table should look like a puzzle, with small gaps between the pieces of glass.”

“A starfish in the middle would be beautiful, don’t you think?” Marisol placed a starfish in the center of the cardboard and began arranging small white cowrie shells around it in the shape of a circle.

At her feet Lily suddenly went on alert, eyes wide, ears flat, a growl vibrating deep in her chest. Ramsay jerked upright, ears pricked, and launched himself off the patio and across the garden toward the right side of the house. Lily loped after him, hairs bristling. The dogs barked wildly at the gate, neither of them paying any heed to Mrs. Bellamy's calls.

“Must be a herd of Tyrannosaurus Rex marauding in the front garden,” Marisol said, pushing herself up from the table and marching across the grass.

“Or the post,” Grandma called after her.

Paul stood on the other side of the gate, holding a finger to his lips. “Sshhh,” he said to the dogs. “Hey you,” he said to Marisol.

She reached for Lily’s collar. The dog yelped in surprise but dropped to the ground passively when she saw it was Marisol holding her. “Ramsay, HUSH!” she commanded the larger dog. He settled into a sit with a final whine.

“You’re not a T-Rex,” she said to Paul as she straightened.

“You were expecting one?”

“Obviously.” She released Lily’s collar. “Behave,” she warned her.

“I brought you something.” Paul smiled at her then and her heart fluttered.

He had changed clothes. And shaved. He was wearing a white dress shirt with tiny blue dots and dark trousers and holding a record album in front of his chest.

“You wanted to hear more of our music. This is our first LP.”

Marisol took the album, studying the colored photograph of the group looking down into the camera from the top of a stairwell.

“I brought you Lizzie’s,” he said.

“I bet that was dramatic.”

“We promised her an autographed copy.”

She flipped the album over. “Twist and Shout…I love that song.”

“Yeah, there are some covers, but John and I wrote most of the songs.”

“Really. What instrument do you play?"

"I play a little of everything. Guitar, piano, drums, sax, spoons, washboard, a tire iron, hell, I'll play anything you put in my hands. Got a red pepper? I'll try to play it." He thumped the cover. "But on this I play bass."

“That’s quite a list." She flipped the album back over to the photograph of the four beautiful young men. “Anyway, thank you. I can’t wait to hear it.”

Paul stood on the other side of the gate with one hand shoved in the pocket of his trousers, waiting.

“So…would you like some lemonade? We’re just sitting on the patio…”

He had the gate unlatched before she finished the invitation. “I rang the bell but no one answered. Then I heard these hounds of hell so I reckoned you were back here.”

As soon as he stepped inside the gate Ramsay leapt on him, leaving two dusty paw prints on the front of his black trousers.

“Ramsay, no! Get down!” The dog gamboled away and Marisol instinctively began to brush the dirt from Paul's hip. When her finger snagged in the placket of his zipper she realized what she was doing and jerked her hand away. She balled her hands into fists and glanced up into his amused eyes. “Oh god...sorry.”

He arched a brow. “I'm starting to think you can't keep your hands off me or my van.”

She felt her face grow warm. "Sorry, I'm...just a little jet lagged," she sputtered.

"I hoped it was my animal magnetism." He put his hand on her lower back as they walked across the grass.

She tried to think of something to say. She tried to think of anything besides the fact he had his hand on her back in that possessive way, as if she belonged to him. She shot him a sideways glance. “So you do know how to shave.”

He rubbed his smooth chin. “Neil says you don't like scruffy guys.”

"Hmm. How would Neil know what I like?"

"So you do like scruffy guys," Paul mused. "Do you think I'm scruffy?"

"You might be," she said, smiling to herself. "If you cleaned up a little."

A smile quirked around his lips, and then he was outright laughing.

 

When they reached the patio, Paul turned his charm on her grandmother. “Mrs. Bellamy, good to see you again. I brought Marisol some music. I hope you won’t hold it against me if the neighbors complain.”

Mrs. Bellamy removed her eyeglasses and tucked them in the pocket of her dress. “Hello Paul, how nice of you. Have a seat, I’ll bring more lemonade,” she said rising from the chair.

“No, Grandma, sit down, I’ll get it.” Marisol patted the album and nodded at Paul. “Thank you, I’ll take this inside.”

When she returned with his drink, Paul was leaning over the tabletop, dropping pieces of sea glass inside the circle of shells, arranging them from dark blue to lighter blue while her grandmother nodded in approval. His other hand rested on Lily’s furry head, his fingers scratching behind one of her ears. Lily rested her chin on his thigh, her liquid brown eyes gazing up at him adoringly. _That didn’t take long._

“I see you’ve found Lily’s sweet spot.”

He sat back, accepting the glass of lemonade. After a long drink he pulled a face, then took another sip. “What is this again?”

“It’s American lemonade. Lemons, sugar and water,” Mrs. Bellamy explained.

“Ah…I was expecting it to be fizzy.” He shook his head and in a stage whisper to Marisol's grandmother he said, “These Americans and their ideas.”

Grandma nodded. “It’s quite good, yes?”

“It’s refreshing. I could learn to like it.”

“Marisol made it just this morning. She’s very domestic. Quite the cook.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes. And she’s quite talented.”

Marisol groaned. “Gramma.”

About this time she caught sight of Paul’s face, which was bemused and twitching around the mouth as he clearly tried not to laugh. His eyes danced mischievously. “Do you know that’s exactly what I thought when I first saw her.”

Grandma stood and smoothed her skirt. “Well. You youngsters enjoy your lemonade. There’s popcorn as well. I’m going to feed these pups their dinner.” The dogs, with their uncanny ability to discern any English words applying to them, were instantly at her heels.

As soon as the French door clicked shut, Paul leaned forward and scooped up a handful of popcorn. He dropped several pieces into his mouth and flung one across the table. Marisol let out a small surprised laugh as it bounced off her shoulder. “Tell me more about these talents of yours," he said playfully.

"Well, for one thing, I have better aim than that."

A perfect eyebrow shot up. “Is that so?" He grabbed another handful of popcorn and pushed the bowl her way. "Go on, then. Lob one in me mouth."

He sat waiting patiently with his head tilted back and his mouth open wide and his left knee bobbing up and down. Marisol bounced four pieces of popcorn off his chin and forehead before he caught the fifth. “Terrible aim," he told her. "I only moved me head to catch that one because it felt like being pelted with jelly babies."

“Jelly babies?"

"Long story. Your turn."

She sat back, opened her mouth and stuck her tongue out at him.

“Oh, this’ll be like hitting the side of a barn,” he teased, bouncing one popped kernel off her nose before landing a direct shot on her tongue. He scooped up another handful of popcorn and launched one at a plump sparrow hopping up to the table.

“Seriously,” Paul coaxed. “What are you better at than anyone you know?”

Marisol rested her chin on a palm, considering the question. Was there anything she was best at? Crying, maybe. Lately it seemed that way. “I don’t know, probably animals. I have three dogs and three horses, and we have a bunch of barn cats. My dad said he looked outside one day and saw eight or nine animals following me across a field like I was the Pied Piper of Sonoma or something.”

“Who could blame them? I’d follow you all over Sonoma, too. Wherever that is.” Their eyes met. He tilted his head and smiled a _come-on-you-know-you-can’t-resist-me_ smile.

She couldn’t help answering with a vague smile before looking away. He was adorable, no question about it. She'd all but forgotten what it felt like to be smiled at that way. _It felt damn good._ "What are you best at...music?”

“No. I’m good but not the best.” With his index fingers he tapped out a rhythm on the table. “What I’m best at is people.” She waited for him to elaborate but instead he asked, “How long will you be in England?”

“Almost four months.”

His eyes widened. “Four months? That’s quite a holiday.”

She wiped absently at the condensation on her glass as she phrased her response. “I took a semester off while my sister is here, and to sort of…take a break. I’ll start school back home in January.”

The drumming stopped. He rested his arms on the table, leaning closer, studying her face intently. “Are you running _away_ from something or running _towards_?”

Marisol met his eyes, surprised. Quite perceptive, this one. Or was she that obvious? “I'm just…um…trying to enjoy the journey,” she said finally.

“Oh, aye. Well, I was thinking, Miss Sonoma, that I could show you around London sometime. If your boyfriend doesn’t mind.”

She noted the carefully worded invitation and blinked away. Her eyes were drawn to the dark hair on his muscled forearms and she had the craziest urge to touch him there. Quickly she looked at her own hands, worrying a cuticle as she considered her response.

There hadn’t been a night in the last six months that she hadn’t fallen asleep missing Dan. He was in practically every waking thought. Some nights she woke up with tears on her pillow after he’d showed up in her dreams. He still had her heart and probably always would. But what was it her grandmother had said? _Time to see what’s behind the next door._ Paul was exciting and fun, and possibly just what she needed to help her stop longing for someone who was never coming back. She looked up. “No boyfriend.”

He smiled. “You should come to London with me. Tonight.”

“Ha. Right.”

His eyes softened as he looked at her, and to her amazement he reached across the table and took one of her hands between the two of his, turned it over, examined her palm, then turned it back and tilted her wrist to look at her slim gold watch. "I see you have the time," he said in a low voice. "And I'm serious.”

She felt a stirring, a want, a need to connect, and quickly tamped it down. She’d only just met him. She couldn’t go running off to London on a whim, no matter how tempting the invitation. “I just got here last night. I couldn’t possibly. My grandmother wouldn't like it."

"So we can leave her home this time. She can come on the Paris trip."

"There's a Paris trip?"

"We'll always have a Paris trip."

She smiled, surprised anew that she was actually enjoying this. "I wish I could, but sadly, I cannot."

“Aye. Well, we're meant to be in London tonight to work on some new material and on the road again tomorrow. My schedule is horrible, really. That’s why you should come to London with me. I’d like a reason to come home early.”

She tried to look unaffected by this as she stared down at her hand, still resting lightly in both of his. She had a good idea what he wanted to show her in London, and it wasn’t Big Ben. But as she'd spent most of the summer on the verge of an emotional breakdown, it would probably be a welcome change. "Maybe next time."

He opened his fingers, releasing her hand. “Will you give me your number then? For next time?”

“For Paris."

"Of course."

She went inside and came back with a business card.

“Hemingway Vineyards & Winery, Sonoma Valley, California,” he read aloud.

“That’s our business address in California. I wrote my grandmother’s number on the back. So you can call me, or you can order a bottle of wine. Your choice.”

He tucked the card into the pocket of his shirt and stood. “I just might do both.”

They paused beside the gate, facing each other.

He patted the pocket of his shirt. “I’ll give you a bell from the road when I have my marching orders in front of me. Can’t wait to hear how you like the LP.”

“Oh. Right. I can’t wait to hear it.”

“You know, I very nearly didn’t come with Nell to the country today. I’m quite glad I did.”

“I’m glad you did too.” Her voice sounded breathless to her own ears. Then her heart skipped as he rested a hand on her shoulder, sliding it underneath her hair, his lean fingers curving around the back of her neck.

He pulled her closer, his eyes never leaving her face. Then he bent his head and brushed his lips against her hair. “Mmm. You smell like the breeze in Camber Sands,” he spoke softly into her ear, a tease of a kiss.

“Oh,” was the only word she could say.

She hadn’t realized she was leaning into him and stumbled slightly as he released his hold and stepped back. He reached out a hand to steady her. “I’ll speak to you soon, Mary Soul.”

Her hands shook as she fumbled with the latch, watching him walk away. _What the hell._ She couldn’t remember ever being so affected by a man’s presence before. It had to be the jet lag. If she were in California she would just now be waking up and slipping on a pair of jeans and espadrille flats, letting the dogs out for a run down to the barn to check on the horses. It was bizarre to think this entire day had happened during the time she would normally be sound asleep. Or fitfully asleep, dreaming about Dan, as was usually the case.

The late afternoon sun dipped behind a cloud and she felt suddenly chilled as a familiar ache gripped her heart. California and her life there seemed a million miles away. Well. She had come to England to get herself together, and by god, that was what she was going to do.

Inside the house Marisol snatched up the album and went straight to the hi-fi in the sitting room. She carefully removed the record from its sleeve. Twelve inches of black plastic with a hole in the middle. Magic. She placed it on the spindle and set the needle in the groove. Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the speaker, she read the bios of the band members on the back cover.

Paul's voice filled the room with the count in: _One two three faaah!_ followed by a rush of guitars, bass and percussion that put a small smile on her face and promised adventure ahead. _This is gonna be good._


	5. Do You Want to Know a Secret

Marisol was halfway underneath the bed in search of Lucy's missing sandal when the dogs stampeded out of the bedroom and down the stairs to bark madly at the front door. Over the fracas she heard her sister trying to shush them. Margo was staying in Sussex for the week with the twins while her husband was away on assignment. Operation Distract Marisol From Thinking About Dan was well underway.

With the sandal in her hand, Marisol wiggled out from under the bed. Lucy was busy trying to remove the other one. "Come here, you."

"No!" Lucy shook her head of white blonde curls and scampered out of the room. "Luce! Look, they're exactly like my sandals! Look how pretty," Marisol sprinted into the hallway after her niece.

"Mar, there's a band here for you!" her sister yelled from the foyer.

_What the heck did she just say?_

With her single shoe flapping, it took Lucy only a few more steps to trip on the carpet and fall flat on her tummy. She began to wail like her life depended on it.

Marisol scooped her up with one arm and headed for the stairs. "You're okay, munchkin. Let's go see Mommy."

She was halfway down the stairs when she saw him. She sucked in a quick breath and reached for the banister with her free hand.

Paul stood in the foyer next to Margo with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, taking in the commotion with a half smile. Lucy's twin sister Sophie toddled around his legs in pursuit of Lily's tail while Ramsay pawed anxiously at a spot near the front door. When Paul raised his head and saw Marisol descending the stairs with Lucy under one arm, his face lit up in a wide, open smile that set her pulse racing.

It had been almost a week since the day at the beach and Marisol had begun to doubt she would hear from him again. She'd played his album a dozen times, lying on the floor of the sitting room with her head directly beneath the speaker. She knew practically every word, every inflection of their voices. Lying in bed at night, headachy with unshed tears, she'd replayed that afternoon in the garden, fantasizing about would have happened if she'd accepted Paul's invitation to London. He was a new favorite tonic when the ache in her heart got the best of her, better than a bubble bath and a bottle of Chablis.

Now the object of her fantasy stood at her grandmother's front door, tall and lean and boyishly handsome, with that infectious grin. She felt herself smiling back at him.

At the bottom of the stairs she set her wriggling, wailing niece on the parquet floor. "Look Lucy, Lily wants to lick you and make it all better!"

Lucy sank her tiny hands into Lily's thick black fur. "Ahhh doggie." The tears vanished.

Marisol blew out a breath that lifted her bangs from her forehead. "You didn't know the circus was in town, did you?"

"I feel right at home. I live in a traveling funfair myself," Paul said.

Margo held open the front door, giving a clear view of the van parked in the courtyard, washed clean of lipstick. Neil and a group of young men loitered nearby, stretching their legs and smoking.

"I'm going to say hi to Nelly and see if the guys want to come in." Margo stepped outside with the dogs and a toddler on her heels. "Luce, please don't ride the dog," she said as the door swung closed.

“Who's that?” Sophie reached for Marisol’s hand, looking up at Paul suspiciously.

“I’m Paul,” he said. “I’m Mari’s friend.”

Sophie still looked suspicious.

“She has the same expression as you, any road,” Paul said.

Marisol swung her niece onto her hip and dropped a kiss onto her satiny cheek. "So this is a surprise."

"Oh, aye. I left your number at home and I've wanted to ring you up all week. So here we are!"

"Why didn't you just have Neil ask his grandmother for our number?"

He tilted his head to the side, observing her with a faint smile. "Because, love, I wanted an excuse to see you."

Her heart turned over in response. She wished she'd taken the time to put on makeup today. Her hair was pulled haphazardly into a pony tail and she couldn't recall brushing it since yesterday. She'd thrown on lime green pedal pushers and a long striped top which was now splashed with purple and pink water color paint from her earlier art session with the twins.

The front door opened and Sophie wriggled to be put down. Marisol set her niece on her feet and watched in silence as the room filled with noisy, restless, beautiful boys, making themselves at home in her grandmother's parlor. When everyone was inside and settled, Paul made a shushing sound to his mates and introduced them one by one.

George was beside the hi-fi sorting through her grandmother's record albums. Handsome, tall, and reed-thin, his shy, toothy grin only flickered before it disappeared.

John stood next to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that dominated one wall, running a finger along the spines of her grandmother's collection of Charles Dickens, Henry James, Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf, Ernest Hemingway, and assorted Readers Digest condensed books. He turned, tossed his eye-brow length brown hair and scrutinized Marisol with narrowed eyes behind his black Buddy Holly type glasses before nodding an acknowledgement. He had an aristocratic face and an edgy, aloof air.

Ringo crossed the room and shook her hand. He was barely over her height, with striking blue eyes and wavy brown hair with an odd streak of grey. "All right?" he said, smiling amiably. Definitely the least intimidating of the group.

Neil gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Where's your grandma?"

"At the flea market with your grandma. She tries to escape sometimes, but we're on to her."

"Come through if you'd like a drink, lads." Margo said. "We made Sangria last night."

"Yes, please." George glanced at the others. "I for one will follow her anywhere."

They gathered around the marble topped serving counter while Margo took a set of cut glass tumblers and a tin of pretzels out of the overhead cabinets. Marisol had always envied her sister's complete lack of self-consciousness. Statuesque, slim and fair-haired, dressed in capri pants and a cotton blouse and sneakers, shiny hair pulled into a stylish French twist, Margo worked the room as if it were a red carpet in Cannes.

John looked from Margo to Marisol to the twins tearing through the room after the dogs. "What is this, a factory where they make blonde-haired, blue-eyed female people?"

"That's right." Margo took a pitcher of Sangria from the fridge and filled the glasses. "I just made two myself."

"Jolly good. I'll have two seventeen-year olds please."

"Sorry, we're fresh out of seventeen-year olds, they're on back order."

"Just my luck."

Margo took another pitcher from the refrigerator and filled two small plastic tumblers. "Girls, have a seat at the table and Auntie Mari will give you some lemonade."

"I'll have a lemonade as well, Gogo," Neil said.

George slapped Neil on the back. "Our fearless driver."

Marisol lifted each of the twins into a chair at the kitchen table and delivered their drinks. She tore two sheets of paper out of a sketch pad and spread a handful of crayons between them. "How about drawing a puppy for me?"

Sophie picked up a black crayon and studied it thoughtfully. Lucy slid out of the chair and wriggled under the table, collapsing in a heap. "I want Daddy," she whined.

 _Ignore bad behavior_ , Marisol reminded herself with a sigh, returning to the counter and squeezing in between Neil and Paul.

"What is this again?" Neil asked after the first sip.

"American lemonade. Lemons, sugar, and water," Paul said.

"Aye, so ye're an expert on Yanks now are ye?" John said. The others laughed.

Paul angled his body toward Marisol and shot her a quick wink. "All in the name of promoting good Anglo-American relations."

"Hear, hear!" said George, tipping back his glass. "I have a few of those myself."

Marisol heard Neil's sigh and watched him move away from the counter. He tinkered with the kitchen radio for a moment and dialed in a music station playing _I'm in Love_.

"Oh good. Nothing beats British country and western," John said.

"Ringo likes this," Paul said.

"What?" Ringo said, "I can't hear."

"Ringo has trouble with his ears." Paul raised his voice to Ringo: "I say you love this song."

"I love the words."

"He loves the words." Paul suddenly switched to a heavy Northern accent. "Have they brought your grapes then?"

"No, they didn't bother."

"We brought you a handful of eggs."

"Put them here and the nurse will do them for me."

Still in the thick accent, Paul asked, "Have you got your potty?"

"It's there in the bath tub. You've changed your hair since you last came to see me."

"Well, keep a fresh mind about all things."

There was a moment of silence. Marisol started giggling, largely because of the what-the-hell? look on her sister's face.

"People from the Dingle in Liverpool where Ringo is from have a basic fear of hospitals. And they always tend to bring people eggs," Neil explained.

"You see," John said, "they still regard the egg as something precious from the harder years, sort of a symbol of wealth and fertility."

Margo inclined her head to John. "Are you the leader of this comedy troupe?"

"There isn't a leader really," George said.

"Oh that's right. Everyone says, sod it, there's no leader, until something goes wrong. Then they all look to me to fix it, no matter what the scene," John drained his glass and reached for the Sangria pitcher.

"Would your husband object to you joining us on the road?" he asked Margo. "We've been searching high and low for a wardrobe mistress with a talent for Sangria."

Margo gestured at her sister. "Well, there she is. Mari makes it, I only pour it."

John barely glanced at Marisol before fixing his gaze on Margo. "Yes, well, Paul's already claimed that one."

 _What?_ Marisol tried not to choke on her sip of wine. She looked around for Paul and found him behind her, leaning over Sophie's chair and studying her drawing. He ran a hand lightly over her golden head, then bent down and peered underneath the table, giving Lucy a little wave. Lucy removed her thumb from her mouth and waved back.

"He has, has he? Have him slip his CV under the door and we'll take a look. And don't forget to include proof of income," Margo said smoothly.

"Consider it done," John said.

"So how is life on the road?" Margo asked, offering refills all around.

"Oh, it's all right," George said. "We've been signing plenty of autographs, many of them on thighs. We don't get to go out much though."

Paul walked up behind Marisol and tugged at her hair band, releasing her pony tail. "Ringo does," he said. "Ring's always out."

"Ringo freelances," John said.

Marisol turned around just as Paul stretched her hair band over one thumb and let it fly. A direct hit, it bounced off Lucy's tummy and skittered beneath a chair. Lucy squeaked with surprise and looked all around comically, trying to figure out what just happened. Ramsay muscled his way under the chair and picked up the hairband in his mouth, carrying it to his favorite rug by the door.

"Do you get recognized everywhere you go now?" Margo asked.

"Oh, aye," George said. "Everyone staring at us all the time. Now I know what it's like to be a girl with big baps."

"We should get out more while we're in the country," John said, then launched into another heavy accent. "I say chaps, let's go visit that strange old man with the raincoat at Bogs End Cottage and see if he has any more special surprises for us."

"Did someone have a little too much sugar this afternoon?" Margo asked John.

"We've taken to calling it Commer fever," said George, "after Neil's van."

They continued trading quips and barbs with each other while Marisol tried to untangle their accents. Her extroverted older sister seemed to be keeping up, but their wit was so fast it made Marisol's head spin.

Paul moved beside her and reached for his drink, their shoulders touching. Her gaze moved down his arms. His light blue chambray shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, revealed darkly haired forearms. He leaned close, speaking only to her. "Is this your wine we're drinking?"

"Yes. Our Sauvignon Blanc."

"It's quite good." He touched his glass to hers and smiled. "To new friends."

"To new friends," she repeated, her eyes frozen on his lips.

He placed a hand on her lower back and whispered in her ear. "Let's get out, shall we?"

Marisol set down her glass without a word and led him out the French door, pausing on the way to rescue her damp hairband from between Ramsay's paws and wrap it around her wrist.

It was a glorious, sunny and bright afternoon. Everyone at the market in town had been in a wonderful humor, she'd noticed earlier that morning. All of England grew ecstatic when the sun shone more than two days in a row.

"We kept your idea, see?" She started to indicate the pieces of sea glass Paul had placed on the mosaic design last week, but was distracted by the book Margo had left lying on the table. _Sex and the Single Girl_ , the controversial advice book by Helen Gurley Brown. Marisol quickly positioned her hand over the cover.

Paul rested his hand on her left shoulder and leaned against her back. Goose bumps rose along her right arm as his fingers trailed down her bare skin. She stood silently, almost afraid to breathe, absurdly aware of every inch of his body pressed alongside hers. His tobacco and pine soap scent, his heat, the feel of his heart beating against her back, his hip pressed against her bottom. Warm, strong fingers circling her wrist, lifting her hand to uncover the book she was trying to hide. His breath in her hair, tickling her ear.

"Any good?" he asked. Low voice, rumbling in her ear. She tried not to shiver.

"Oh. It's...uh...not mine," she croaked, then cleared her throat. _Get it together_ , she told herself.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against her back. "Your grandmother's a very enlightened lady, isn't she?"

"No, my sister is. Very enlightened. Margo, that is." She held her breath as he released her hand and stepped away.

"And I thought you'd be reading Hemingway."

Her breath came out in a rush. So he'd worked that out already. She shrugged one shoulder. "Sometimes."

"Neil told me he was your grandfather."

Her Papa had died tragically a little over two years ago. It was the last thing she'd expected to be talking about with Paul today. It brought her back to earth with a resounding thud. "Right." Marisol pretended to be fascinated by a pair of bumblebees chasing each other over a lavender bush.

Paul stared into the garden in the direction of her gaze. "It must be a pain in the arse, losing someone who is a public figure like that. All the world has opinions about him, and to you it's a very personal loss."

She looked up at him in surprise. That was exactly how it felt.

"What was he like?" he asked gently. "Other than brilliant and talented."

Her fingers fluttered to the gold chain around her neck as she contemplated the question. "He was...funny, impatient, adventurous...larger than life, really. He was always looking for ideas for the next story, I think. There was never a dull moment...until he got sick."

She cast her eyes downward, picking at the purple paint under her thumbnail. When anyone mentioned her grandfather now, she felt she had to dodge the circumstances of how he'd died. She knew he'd been in physical and psychic pain, and when he could no longer write, he wanted nothing to do with life. To the world he was a brilliant writer, but he was her Papa, and losing him had been devastating.

Paul moved in front of her, bending his head to catch her eyes. "Am I asking too many questions?"

"No, it's okay."

"It's fascinating to me, you know, the process of writing."

She sighed. "You should meet my father. He loves talking about that."

"I'd love to. Pencil me in."

She smiled to herself imagining the odds of Paul ever crossing paths with her globe-trotting, adventure seeking father. "Right. Will do."

Her eyes darted around the patio while her mind fumbled for a way to change the conversation. She indicated two large sheets of art paper spread on the tiles in one corner of the patio, pink and purple splashes drying in the sun. "Too bad you're late, you just missed Jackson Pollock."

Paul's gaze swept over her. "Looks like he used you as a canvas as well." There was sudden loud laughter from the kitchen behind them. Paul gestured to the trees at the back of the garden. "Let's walk."

They stepped off the patio onto a curving path lined with flowering shrubs, toward a small creek that ran beside a large willow tree. They passed a pair of apple trees and a pear tree, their branches heavy with rosy fruit. Here and there a yellow leaf showed itself among the green foliage. The breeze smelled like an apple peel. Their hands brushed as they walked, and in a movement that seemed completely natural, Paul laced his fingers with hers.

"Our LP. I've been dying to know what you thought."

"Oh yes! Right. I loved it!"

"Yeah? What did you love about it?"

"The vocals, the harmonies, the beat, the energy, the electric guitars..." She aimed a smile at him. "The amazing walking bass line."

His eyebrows arched. "Oh, listen to you. Spoken like a musician."

"I took piano and violin lessons when I was young, so I can hear when someone is crazy talented." In a teasing voice she added, "I don't even need your grandmother to tell me that."

He chuckled softly. "I'm dead pleased you love it. We've almost finished our second one. It's got more original numbers."

"I've heard that playing bass and singing at the same time is one of the hardest things to do."

"Not really. First you learn to play. Then you don't think about it anymore. You trust your fingers to take over."

When they reached the weeping willow, Paul let go of her hand, held the branches aside and ducked his head to peer underneath. "After you, love."

She stepped under the canopy and looked around. "Ah, so many memories. This was my kingdom." She brushed away the leaves and debris from a small wrought iron bench next to the trunk and sat down. "I lugged this bench under here all by myself back in '55 with my skinny little ten year old arms."

"How very thoughtful of you." Paul sat down beside her. "It's like a secret lair." He gave her a sidelong glance. "Tell me a secret. Something you haven't told anyone else."

"Hmm...wow." Paul had an uncanny way of throwing her off balance in every conversation, but in a good way. It certainly kept her on her toes. "Okay...my brother-in-law is going to teach me to fly while I'm in England. We're going up this week if the weather stays good."

"That's literally the last thing I expected you to say."

"He's an Air Force Captain so it's quite safe. But I haven't told anyone except Margo."

She watched Paul pick up a broken willow branch and begin idly stripping away the leaves. "Why do you want to learn to fly?"

Her answer was automatic. "Because I love that sensation of roaring down the runway and lifting off into the air. That feeling in your stomach as you get pressed back into your seat, it's almost sexy to me. The power, the speed, the whole idea that you can climb in a metal tube and soar through the sky, it's like a miracle every time. You get above the clouds where the sun is always shining and everything on the ground seems so insignificant. To be able to feel that sensation at my whim...that's what I want."

Paul's hands had stilled, and she raised her eyes to find him watching her with rapt attention and a tiny smile playing about his lips. "Is that all?"

She shook her head soberly. "That's only the beginning."

"I'm quite sure I've never met anyone like you, Mary Soul."

"Ditto," she said. She stared boldly back at him, at the warm gold flecks in his lovely brown eyes, the small sheen of perspiration above his upper lip, the tiny dimple in his chin where he'd missed a spot shaving. She thought about putting her finger in that dimple and asking him if it was hard to shave there. A mosquito buzzed between them, hovering at eye level, and Paul comically crossed his eyes. Marisol laughed and looked away. Paul clapped his hands in front of his face, checked his hands and wiped them on his jeans.

"Eww," Marisol said.

"You're welcome," said Paul.

"So, what's your secret?" she asked.

"God, there are so many." He draped his arm across the back of the bench, his eyes distant. "Well. Here's one. There's a farm up in Scotland that my Dad took us to when we were small. It's gorgeous, beside a lake and not far from the sea. Two hundred acres and a farmhouse as well." He pursed his lips, probably picturing it in his mind.

She stared at his mouth, wondering what it would be like to suck on that pouty lower lip. She imagined it tasted of Sangria. And a little salty. Then she realized he was watching her, probably waiting for a response. "Sounds lovely." She blinked, her gaze moving to his eyes.

"It even has a standing stone, do you know what that is?"

"Like Stonehenge?"

"Yeah sort of, they're prehistoric monuments all over the UK. Any road, my grandfather's grandfather came over from Ireland and raised sheep on that land, but they couldn't make a go of it and ended up in the Pool. Liverpool." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "The secret is, I'm going to buy that farm one day."

"That's...amazing."

"Aye lass," he beamed, with a credible Scottish accent. "It's just a wee small place, up there at the tip of Scotland, and aye plarrn tae make the occasional trip up therre for a wee spell of solitude. Would ye carre to join me?"

She nodded. "I just might. I've never been."

"I reckon I could show you a few places you've never been, little lady," he drawled.

She smiled at his ridiculous imitation of a Texan, at least that's what she assumed it was. "I reckon you could."

His fingers lightly rubbed the back of her neck as he smiled at her. Was he going to kiss her? _Yes, please_. She felt almost lightheaded with wanting to kiss him. What was it about him that made her forget who she was? A pair of starlings settled on a branch directly above their heads, then flew away, chattering. Breaking the spell.

"Well. I've got some other things to do first, like get a new car, and a place to live, and a house for my Da, and, well, get rich and successful, you know."

She nodded, remembering what her sister had told her earlier this week about the group. "Margo has been in England all summer and she said people are saying you're going to be bigger than Elvis."

"Ah, she must have been talking to Eppy, That's what our manager tells everyone."

"She read in a London newspaper the police are having trouble handling the crowds at your shows."

"Yeah, it's been nuts. George says the whole country has gone batshit crazy and we're the only sane ones."

Just then a shrill whistle sounded, followed by Neil's voice calling from the back door. "Ey up! Time to go mate!"

"Half a mo!" Paul yelled back. He looked at Marisol. "Damn. I was hoping we were invisible inside the secret lair."

"That never worked when I was little either."

He took her hand and led her back through the garden. At the side gate, he slid his fingers over her bare arms, looking at her as if he were photographing her with his eyes. "I like you, Mari. I've been thinking about you all week. I would probably mope around for a long time if you didn't like me back. What do you think we should do?"

Nobody had ever asked her such a direct question before. She didn't really know how to respond.

"Take your time. No rush." He waited, gazing around the garden, at the back of the house. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. If she had to guess, she would say he was light years ahead of her in terms of experience with the opposite sex. Yet he seemed somehow anxious, as if her answer was important to him. He radiated restless energy, poised in front of her, breathing up at the clear sky, his neck strong and beautiful.

"I've thought about you all week too," she told him honestly.

His lips curved in a smile. "That's good enough for now." He picked up a lock of her hair and held it between his thumb and forefinger, examining it as if he were buying a suit. "I have an evening off this week. Are you free Thursday?"

"I think I could arrange it," she said. As if she had anything else at all to do.

"Fab. I'd like to take you out. Some place special. I could be here around six?"

"Six," she repeated, scarcely able to believe this was happening and how much she wanted a night with him. He could have suggested a balloon ride across the Sahara or a swing on a flying trapeze and she'd be game.

They were standing so close she could feel his breath on her lips. The world fell away, drained of all color but Paul, standing in the sunlight, stripped of all sound but her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Her eyes fluttered closed and her head tilted as he pressed his lips to hers. They were soft and warm and new. She let her heart race and her mouth move, and for the first time in months she felt alive.

Somewhere a million miles away a door slid open. Claws clicked on the patio. A rustle in the grass and Lily panted against her leg.

She couldn't say how long the kiss lasted, but when he pulled away, she missed it already. She heard his breath hitch. "Right." He pulled her lightly into a hug and sighed against her hair. "Thursday, then."

A shrill whistle sounded from the front garden and Paul released her.

"See you Thursday," Marisol repeated.

"Isn't it pretty to think so?" Paul said, quoting the final line of Hemingway's  _The Sun Also Rises_ and letting his eyes linger on hers.

Marisol rested a hand on Lily's soft head, her heart still hammering as she watched him walk through the gate and disappear with a final wave.

"Oh Lily. I don't know about you, but I think that man is going to rock my whole world."


	6. Dream Baby

Nothing in Marisol’s two trunks of clothes from home was suitable for a first date with a Beatle. This was according to Margo, who raided her own London closet and showed up with a classic Pucci outfit she’d acquired during a short modeling stint in Paris. It was a maroon and dark green geometric printed silk straight dress with a black coat and lining that matched, and it fit, just barely.

Marisol donned a pair of black sling back high heeled pumps and posed in front of her sister and the twins.

“Et voila!” Margo said. “Girls, doesn’t Auntie Mari look like a princess?”

“Pincess!” Lucy said, twirling around the upstairs bedroom until she collapsed in a dizzy heap on the carpet.

Marisol stepped over her niece and paused in front of the mirror, frowning at the unfamiliar sight of herself wearing so much dark eye liner. Another of Margo's suggestions. The ring on the gold chain around her neck glinted in the light. She tucked it under the collar of the dress.

Sophie toddled over with her arms in the air. “Hi sweet girl.” Marisol picked her up and nuzzled her neck.

Grandma Bellamy bustled in with the dogs behind her. She held up a small change purse. “Here’s an extra key, and some shillings in case you need to make a phone call. I’ve written down our number and Margo’s number in London.”

“How about her blood type and the date of her last tetanus shot?” Margo asked.

“Don’t be cheeky, love. Do we even know this young man? Do we know anything at all about his family?”

“Sixteen million British teenagers can't all be wrong.”

Grandma tsk-tsked and walked up behind Marisol, peering over her glasses, their gazes meeting in the mirror. “You look lovely, dear. But…” She gathered her granddaughter’s long locks in one hand. “What are you planning to do with this mess?”

“Long hair is the style in California, Grandma. Everyone will be wearing it this way soon.”

“Hmm. Seems the women in California have really let themselves go if they’re no longer styling their hair,” Grandma mused as she left the room.

Marisol rested her chin on her niece’s soft golden curls with a sigh. “What about you, Sophie bug? Do you have an opinion?”

Sophie shook her head. “You can get me one,” she suggested around the thumb in her mouth.

“I’m sure you’ll have your own in no time.” Marisol gave her niece a squeeze before putting her down next to Lily.

Margo rummaged in the dresser and held up a black grosgrain ribbon headband. “Put this on and I’ll tease your hair in back to give you some lift.” She met Marisol’s eyes in the mirror. “Are you okay?” Margo asked. "You seem a bit stressed."

“Really?" Marisol almost rolled her eyes. She hadn’t been on a first date in two years, and Margo and their grandmother were so anxious for her to stop thinking about Dan that they were treating this night like it was her debutante ball. ”Can’t imagine why I’d be stressed.”

“Just have fun. Enjoy yourself. You’re only here for a few months.” Margo set down the comb and admired her work. “For god’s sake don’t fall for him.”

Marisol scoffed. “I’m not stupid.”

The dogs stampeded out of the bedroom and down the stairs seconds before the doorbell chimed. “Hell’s bells. Are you sure this dress is right? It’s lovely but awfully tight, and this hair is definitely not me.”

Margo helped her into the coat and took her by the hands, eying her from head to toe. “You’re perfect. Tight is good. It shows off your waist. Men are fascinated by waists because they don't have them. And boobs. But that goes without saying.”

“Thanks, Mom. Thanks for the brainstorming session.” With one last look in the mirror, she raked her fingers through her hair to flatten it again and tossed the headband on top of the dresser.

Margo was waiting outside the bedroom door. "And now comes the classic first date moment where you descend the staircase and he spots you from the foyer and his jaw hits the floor."

"That is so corny."

"Part of what makes it so classic. Practically mandatory." She took Marisol's arm. "Lord, I wish Dad were here so he could stride through the front room with a rifle over his shoulder like he did when I brought Nick home.”

In spite of her nerves, Marisol couldn't help smiling.

Paul was indeed in the foyer, smiling and nodding at something her grandmother had said. When he looked up and saw Marisol his jaw didn't exactly drop, but his eyes widened and his gaze traveled down her body at a snail’s pace before moving back up to her face. He mouthed one word: “Wow.”

Margo squeezed her arm and murmured, “There it is,” then greeted Paul with a boisterous “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

Paul dragged his attention from Marisol and flashed a grin at Margo. “I’d tell you what’s cooking but it would spoil the surprise.”

Margo pretended to check her watch. “I’ll wait up.” She turned at the sound of the girls tussling at the top of the stairs. “Ladies, on your bottoms!”

The twins plopped onto their bottoms and slid from one step to the next, hands clasped.

“They’re like a pack of well-trained puppies,” Paul observed.

“Domesticated wolf pups more like,” Margo said.

Marisol grabbed Paul's hand. “Shall we go?” It was all she could do not to pull him out the door and away from her overly invested relatives.

“Drive safely, dear,” Mrs. Bellamy admonished as they walked out into a blustery grey evening.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Paul said as soon as they were alone.

“Hello to you too." Her gaze swept over his well-fitted charcoal trousers and jacket, crisp white shirt and grey sweater vest. “Look at you...you look amazing in that suit.”

“Thanks, love, I wore my bezzies for you because I have a special night planned for us.”

“I don’t care what we do, I just want to get out of here. I've had far too much help getting ready tonight.” She stopped beside the front seat of a large black sedan, smiling up at him, her hair whipping around her face.

“You driving?” Paul asked with a grin.

“Ha! Sorry, it takes me awhile to get used to where you Brits put the steering wheel.” She glanced in the front seat and gasped. “There’s a man in the car."

"Ah, it's only Alf." He opened the back door of the sedan. "After you.”

She scooted across the back seat and Paul followed. A somber dark-haired man in a blue chauffeur’s suit and cap nodded at her. "Evenin', Miss.”

She greeted the driver while Paul leaned over the front seat and fiddled with the dials on the radio. Alf steered the car into the lane. The radio played “It’s All in the Game” and Paul settled back against the seat beside her.

"You have a driver?" Marisol hissed.

“Yes, love. I’ve been temporarily disqualified from driving for speeding.”

“How fast were you going?”

“Not half a ton.”

She frowned. “Seems a bit harsh.”

“Ah well. Can’t really drive much anyway since I’m on tour all the time.” He slung an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “I’ve been thinking about you all week, gorgeous girl.” His lips brushed her cheek and she shivered.

“You cold?” He pulled her closer, their thighs just touching.

“Not anymore.” Marisol smiled. “How was your week?”

“Sweet as a nut. I sang a few songs, signed a lot of autographs, sold a few records, and made a lot of people happy, especially my manager.” They shared an amused glance. “How was yours?”

“I’m not sure if I made anyone happy, but I went roaming about with my grandma, babysat the twins and got my flying manual from Nick, and yesterday I had lunch with my friend Angela in London.”

“Ah. You have a friend in London?”

“Yes, she’s loads of fun. I met her on vacation in Bermuda when we were twelve.”

They passed quickly through the picture-postcard village of old stone churches and quaint cottages. As they turned onto another narrow road with sweeping countryside views, the sun was beginning to set behind a chain of rolling hills.

“How Do You Do It” began playing on the car radio. “Oh I love this song. I never heard it at home and they play it all the time over here,” Marisol said.

Paul laughed. “This song is crap.”

She made a face. “C’mon, listen how catchy it is. It makes me want to dance.”

He smirked. “Well, because it’s our arrangement.”

“How so?”

“I’ll tell you a funny story. About a year ago George—he’s our producer—chose this song for our first release. He said it’d be a major hit. We hated it. It was too white for us, you see.”

Marisol arched a brow. "Too white?"

"Yeah. I know. It's true, though. We want to be known for rhythm and blues, not just pop music. And we want to do our own songs. Any road, George said, ‘When you have something as good as this, we’ll record it, but for now you’ll do this one.’ We came back a week later with “Love Me Do,” sort of speeded up, and George liked it well enough. He gave our demo of “How Do You Do It” to Gerry and the Pacemakers.”

“And look at you now,” Marisol teased. "I would never guess you're white."

Paul reached in an inside pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Ah, I get the heebiegeebies remembering that session.” He took out a cigarette, tapped it on the package, and cracked the back window open.

“We were all set to record “Love Me Do,” and George told us John couldn’t play harmonica and sing the chorus at the same time, it was sounding like ‘Waaaah me do.’” I mean he suddenly changed this whole arrangement we’d been doing forever, so now I'd sing the ‘love me do’ line and John would come in ‘Waahhh wahhhh wahhhhhh with the mouth organ.’“

Marisol watched him light the cigarette and take a long drag. He scratched his jaw, lost in the memory. “We were doing it live, so I was suddenly given this massive moment, on our first record, no backing, the spotlight was on me and I went ‘Love me doooo’ with my voice shaking all the way through. I was terrified.”

“I’ve listened to it probably a dozen times and it sounds perfect to me.”

Paul smiled at her. “I'm glad you've become such a Beatles fan, love, but you're hearing a later version.” He took another drag on the cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke toward the open window. “John did sing it better than me, he has a lower voice and was a little more bluesy.”

“I love the way your voices blend. Your harmonies are fantastic.”

“Those first songs, we’re chasing that Everly Brothers sound, you know. We pinch from everyone - Buddy Holly, Little Richard, Smokey Robinson, we’re great mimics.”

Marisol smiled to herself at how passionate Paul became when he talked about his music. His entire being lit up with excitement. He began to describe the songs they'd already recorded for their next album and she relaxed beside him, content to listen as the miles flew by.

They hit traffic near Gatwick airport and were at a crawl as the planes flew overhead.

“Is that a Connie?” Marisol pointed at a departing aircraft.

Paul glanced out the window. “I couldn't say.”

She watched it bank right and head toward the coast. “It is. Lockheed Constellation, made in California. See how it looks like a dolphin? My brother-in-law flies it.”

“Hmm. What’s that one?” His head was close to hers as they watched another plane departing.

“I think it’s a Viscount… Yeah, BEA. See the four engines? First turboprop in the world, made right here in Britain.”

“How on earth do you know that?”

“When we were little if we wanted to spend time with my father it would usually involve hanging around the airfield waiting for a plane to take us duck hunting or quail hunting or fly fishing. He would quiz us on types of airplanes, current events, literature, whatever popped into his head, and the loser had to clean the fish.”

“Sounds like a scary guy.”

“No, he’s not all that scary. It’s just he is rather tall, and he does walk around with a shotgun, but it’s only to scare away the deer from the grapes.”

He stared at her wordlessly for a moment. "So, a typical American," he said finally.

She smiled. "I suppose."

Paul turned his attention to another airplane ascending. “How about that one?”

“It’s a Comet. BOAC.”

“And that one?”

“I think it’s a Britannia. No, wait, another Connie.”

“I’ve never met a bird who could identify airplanes. But, honestly? You could be making it all up and I’d never know.”

“Since I was little I’ve been fascinated with airplanes.”

“Well I think it’s fab that you…” Paul’s voice trailed off as his attention was drawn to the side of the road. He shouted toward the front seat. “Alf! Papers!”

“Right, Guv’nor.” Alf angled the car to the curb.

Paul thumbed through a few newspapers on the rack before climbing back in the car. “Right then, Alf, crack on.” He turned to Marisol. “Checking for reviews of last night’s show.”

Back in traffic, Paul asked, “Do you like Greek food?”

“Of course.”

“Alf is taking us to a quiet little place with great food.”

The restaurant was downstairs in a white painted cellar. It was busy, but the owner, a short, round Greek man with a harried air, beckoned them to a tiny table in the back against the wall. The tables were covered with red and white checked tablecloths, votive candles in the center or each. A picture of whitewashed buildings in a rocky bay hung on the wall beside their table.

It smelled divine from the moment they walked in. Fresh bread, oregano, garlic, lemon, seasoned meats were all mingled in a delicious aroma. Marisol’s stomach growled.

Paul handed her the wine list. “What do you recommend, Miss Hemingway?”

Marisol perused the small list and pointed to a word in Greek. “If this is St. George’s, it’s a very nice red.”

The waiter arrived, and Paul said, “If you have a bottle of St. George's, you're our man.”

“Yes sir, very good choice.”

They tucked into a plate of crusty baked bread with olive oil. Their wine arrived seconds later.

Paul tipped his glass toward hers. “Here’s to this water, wishing it were wine, here’s to you my darling, wishing you were mine.”

Marisol smiled and took a sip.

“That’s how my father used to toast my mother with his water glass at dinner.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I still remember that.”

“That’s sweet…are they very much in love?”

“They were, yes.” Paul said. “We lost her when I was fourteen.”

Her heart plummeted. “Oh no, Paul, I’m so sorry.”

He fixed his gaze on the flickering candle in the center of the table. “It’s a strange thing, you know, when you lose a parent at a young age. It robs you of that idea children have that nothing bad can happen. From then on you seem to be always waiting for the next bad thing that lies just around the corner.” He stroked a sideburn, seemingly lost in thought.

Marisol made a small, comforting sound, unsure of what to say.

Paul straightened and gave her a lopsided smile. “Maybe that’s why I’m so driven to make this band work, because…‘tomorrow never knows.’” He winked at her. “That’s a Ringoism. We get such a kick out of Ringo,” he added, almost to himself.

The conversation paused as the waiter returned to take their order. She ordered moussaka and Paul decided on lamb meatballs with saffron rice.

“How is your dad doing now?” she asked when the waiter had gone to place their order.

“He’s coping. He’s by nature a contented lad.” He rolled his shoulders and tugged at his shirt cuffs. “The funny thing is, if my mum had lived, I doubt the Beatles would have ever happened. At least not with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mum was a nurse, very big on education. She’d never have allowed me to sag off school every day to practice with John. She wanted me to be a doctor, can you imagine? At the very least a teacher.” He shook his head. “After she died, my little brother and I moved in to Auntie Jin’s house for a while where we wouldn’t hear my Dad crying at night.”

“Oh my god, that’s so sad.”

“Yeah, it’s the worst thing you can imagine. Dads don’t cry, you know? My little brother cried all the time too, but my cousins say all I did for two months was slump in a chair and stare into space.”

At that, unexpectedly, sadness struck her like an arrow. Her mouth crumpled and tears stung her eyes. She tipped her head back, blinked, and fanned her face with her napkin. She remembered staring into space in the weeks after losing Dan, when it took everything she had to get out of bed in the morning, to force herself to eat, to breathe. When the pain in her chest was never-ending.

“Oh shit, are you okay?” Paul’s eyes were huge. He stretched his hand across the table to her.

Instead of taking his hand, she reached for her wineglass and took a long drink. “Of course,” she said hoarsely. “I just…that’s a terrible age to lose a parent.” She wrapped both hands around her glass.

Paul withdrew his hand and fiddled with the silverware. “It is. But you go through stages. After seven years it isn’t so overwhelming. Now it’s more of a ‘Cor, Ma, you wouldn’t believe how life turns out! I’m so sorry you missed this!’ It’s always there, but more of a wistful nostalgia.”

She took a shaky breath. “You’re experiencing things on her behalf, in a way, because you’re part of her.”

“Exactly.” He broke off another piece of bread and pushed the last piece closer to her. “And then I found the guitar. I was like a man possessed…and I still am, I suppose.” He gestured to her with the crust of bread. “I can guarantee my Mum would have never stood for me leaving school at 17 to tour Scotland, and then all those months in Germany? It was hard enough getting that past my Dad, and he was a bandleader himself back in the day.”

There was a clatter of cutlery from the kitchen. A waiter shouted something in Greek. Loud laughter from a table near the door. Paul glanced around the room. “I like this place. Most of the customers are Greek. Nobody knows who I am. I can just be a regular guy on a first date, trying to impress a beautiful girl.”

Marisol met his eyes. This was no shallow first date dinner conversation. He was sharing his soul with her, trusting her with what was likely his biggest heartache, making himself an open book, giving her a lot more than she was prepared to give him. “You’re doing a very good job of it.”

He reached for the wine bottle to refill their glasses. "You're doing a good job of being beautiful.”

She swallowed the lump that lingered in her throat and attempted a smile. So what if it was a line. Hearing Paul call her beautiful was never going to get old.

“No more war stories,” he continued. “Making you cry at dinner was not at all how I envisioned our first date.”

“No, I’m glad you told me. I was just caught off guard. You seem so…carefree, I guess. And now you seem….I don’t know, more real I guess.” A fellow heartbreak survivor. She squared her shoulders, determined to enjoy herself this evening. She deserved it, and Paul deserved it.

“Aye. Well. We all have our own ways of coping. And we all have our own war stories to tell, don’t we?”

She nodded, not meeting his eyes. “So you said you toured in Germany when you were seventeen?”

“I was eighteen by then. We played in Hamburg. That’s where we learned our stagecraft, really.”

“What was Hamburg like?”

He swirled his wineglass, shaking his head as he reminisced. “An eye-opener, for one thing.” He took a drink. “We had more stage time in our first week there than we had in the entire previous three years. Picture this huge Teutonic club manager with a peg leg waving his fist, screaming at us: ‘Mach schau, Beatles! Make show!’“

“You’re making that up!” Marisol interrupted, smiling more easily, caught up in the story.

Paul held up his right hand. “Hand to god. I couldn’t make up any of these Hamburg characters unless I were Ernest Hemingway, and I’m definitely not. The sailors, the strippers...God, what a scene.” His gaze became distant. “We would play for more than eight hours a night, every night, the waitresses slipping us prellies to keep us going.”

“Prellies?”

“Preludin. Everyone was taking them to stay up all night and work. In the eleventh hour, John would be off his trolley, yelling at the audience, ‘Where are your tanks now, you Kraut bastards?’”

Her eyebrows rose. “He didn’t.”

“No one seemed to mind. Certainly not the American sailors. The others were too drunk or oblivious to know what he was saying. Any road, with all that stage time, we learned how to ‘make show.’ We became a tight little band. And when we came back, no one in England could touch us. We were being introduced as 'the Beatles, straight from Hamburg.' People thought we were German. They'd say, 'oh you speak English really well.'"

The food arrived, and she would like to think it looked, smelled, and tasted superlative, made with the freshest ingredients and cooked to perfection, but her senses were so preoccupied with Paul that the food barely registered. It might have been the best meal of her life, and all she could say was that the man across from her was captivating.

“Enough about the Beatles, tell me about your life back in California."

She told him about growing up in a vineyard and how her father had originally sold their harvest to large wineries but eventually decided to produce their own wine. Her brother had interned in France and brought back methods of fermentation that resulted in a better product than some of the established wineries.

"California wine making is becoming a big business," she said. "In a few years we'll be giving the French and Italians some real competition, just wait."

"What were you saying to Lizzie the other day about being on the telly?”

Marisol told him about volunteering with Margo at an animal rescue organization and how their grandfather's name recognition had led to occasional guest spots for them on a local talk show. They brought adoptable animals onto the program, helped with fundraising telethons and recorded radio and television spots on behalf of the California Humane Society.

“I might have known you were a television star, being from California.”

“Ha. Well, it’s local television, small market. But they tell us every animal we bring on television gets adopted within a few hours.”

“You should bring the most decrepit dogs with you, the ones who need it the most.”

“We thought of that. ‘Looking for a forever friend? Meet Bruno, he’s fifteen years old and has seizures.”

They both laughed. “That’s cruel.”

Paul leaned forward, resting his chin on a fist. “I'd like to go home with you someday. Your horses, the vineyard, it doesn’t even sound real. Sounds like a movie set.”

“Oh. Well, you may be bored out of your mind since we’re an hour out of the city, but please come.” She smiled. “Especially at harvest time, we’ll make you work for your supper.”

His expression became serious. “I will, Mari. Plan on it.”

“Okay.” They stared into each other’s eyes until she looked away. The idea of it, this beautiful, magnetic English boy who rarely had a night off traveling five thousand miles to see her in California. Impossible. And yet, her heart lurched at the thought. She raised her eyes to find him still watching her with his intense gaze, a tiny smile playing about his lips.

The night had turned chilly when they reached street level and they huddled together for warmth. Inside the car, Paul slipped an arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her temple. She practically sighed with contentment. The wine, the conversation, Paul's attention...this sort of night was exactly what she’d needed.

Twenty minutes later they drove slowly past a theatre with lights glowing red and yellow against the darkening sky.

She scanned the marquis, recognizing none of the names until…“Roy Orbison?” she squeaked. “In England? Are we seriously going to see Roy Orbison?”

“His friends, which will soon include you, call him Big O, but yes, love, we are.” Paul said.

“I can’t believe it!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a kiss beside his ear.

“Mmm,” he said, “I like what Big O does to you.” With a hand under her chin he lifted her face and placed a soft kiss on her lips. This night just keeps getting better, she thought, happily surprised.

Paul peered out the front window. “We’re a bit late, according to plan. No worries about fans spotting us outside. We’re just in time for Roy.”

At the back of the theatre, Alf heaved himself out of the car and rapped sharply on a metal door. It was opened by a security guard in an ill-fitting dark suit, and Paul and Marisol were quickly ushered inside. They stood for a moment in a dark hallway as the door blew shut behind them. Their ears were accosted by music from the theatre and screams from an appreciative audience. “The Searchers are on,” Paul shouted near her ear. “They’re a Mersey group.”

The security guard handed them each a laminated backstage pass on a beaded chain. Paul grabbed her hand and they dashed down the hall and up a short flight of wooden stairs, closer to the music pounding from the stage.

Paul paused to grin and shake hands with several young men in matching suits who were watching the show from backstage, a few of them with guitars slung over their shoulders. Talking was out of the question this close to the amplifiers. He led her to the side of the stage where they could see the performers.

He drew Marisol in front of him and wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head. Their bodies settled against each other as if molded together. They swayed to “Stand By Me” and “Love Potion Number 9,” and the Searchers ran offstage to wild applause. Some of the band members paused to exchange handshakes with Paul before dashing down the stairs into the hallway and dressing rooms beyond. They were all great looking men, Marisol couldn’t help but notice. Wherever this Mersey was, she needed to tell Angela about it.

And suddenly there was Roy. Dressed in black from head to toe, his eyes covered by dark shades. He stood in the middle of the stage with his guitar. He didn’t move. The shape of his lips barely even altered. But she’d never heard anything like the voice that came out of that still figure in the center of the stage when he began to sing.

He had an opera voice with a soulful, bluesy slant, and an uncanny ability to convey raw emotion. Even if you’d never experienced a broken love affair, she thought, Roy obviously had and was able to communicate that to his audience. Listening to him was like reading a great book, swept away to a world you knew nothing about.

“Dream Baby,” “Down the Line,” “Falling,” “Cryin,” “Lonely and Blue”… the hits and the moments flew by.

At the end of his set he sang, 'She's walking back to me, do do do do da do do-do...' And the audience went wild.

Marisol turned within Paul’s arms and tilted her face to his. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

“You’re welcome, love.” He kissed her softly and her heart raced. This night. Could it get any better?

It could, and it did. Roy returned to the stage for two encores before the curtains swept across the stage for the final time.

The communal dressing room was a blur of musicians finishing drinks and assistants packing cases, everyone preparing to board a bus idling outside. Paul led her by the elbow through the crowd and introduced her to Roy. He was soft spoken and polite, and he looked surprised when Paul mentioned Marisol was from California.

“How did you wind up with this wild man?” Roy asked.

“We have a mutual friend,” Paul answered for her. “A Mr. Aspinall.”

“Ah, Neil, he’s a good guy. This one here is a good guy too,” Roy said to Marisol, giving Paul’s shoulder a playful nudge.

“I loved your show, Mr. Orbison,” Marisol blurted, feeling a little starstruck.

“Please, call me Roy, or I’ll think you’re talking to my dad.”

She felt her face flush. “Okay...Roy…I just want you to know that seeing you sing “Dream Baby” from backstage was an experience I will never forget."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Paul steal a glance at her. A flash of a smile, a dip of his head, a quiet chuckle. Then he turned his attention to Roy. "What she meant to say was: 'Roy, slow dancing to “Dream Baby” backstage with Paul was an experience I will never forget."

Roy’s lips twitched in a semblance of a smile. “Either way, I’m honored to have provided the soundtrack to your evening.”

"It's our first date.” Marisol leaned against Paul’s shoulder, smiling fondly up at him.

"First date? Now I'm even more honored." Roy said.

Paul grinned. “Thanks for coming to England and making that happen, brother.”

Marisol gestured at the two of them. “How do you even know each other?”

“We toured together, last spring.” Turning to Roy, Paul lowered his voice. “This one acts as though she has no idea what a big deal I am here.”

Roy chuckled. “Yes ma'am. We toured together as the first Beatles single was going to the top of the charts. The end of the tour, I’d step out on stage and the girls would be going nuts, screaming ‘We want the Beatles.’”

“I remember wondering how you would cope with it,” Paul said. “But you stood there and whispered, "A candy-colored clown they call the Sandman" and you were golden. The audience loved you and forgot all about us.” He looked at Marisol. “Mind you, he completely overshadowed us.”

Roy shook his head, pointing at Paul. ”I remember you and John grabbing me by my arms and not letting me go back to take my curtain call.”

“You mean your fourteenth curtain call?”

Roy smiled shyly. “The audience was yelling, ‘We want Roy, we want Roy,’ and there I was, being held captive by the Beatles who were saying, ‘Yankee, go home.’”

“We had a great time, didn’t we Roy?”

“We should do it again.”

  
A crowd of fans waited outside the stage entrance for Roy and the other musicians. Paul shoved his hair off his forehead and donned Alf’s chauffeur cap and a pair of large black rimmed eye glasses and they whizzed past the crowd before anyone suspected who he was.

“That was a nifty trick,” Marisol said when they were safely inside the car and back on the road.

Paul handed Alf his cap and stowed his glasses in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Don’t tell anyone. Once they figure it out I’ll have to think of something else.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” She pulled his hand into her lap and squeezed it. “Thank you. It was lovely hearing the show, and meeting your best friend Roy.”

“Isn’t he great? He reminds me of a preacher, he's such a sweet and gentle, lovely guy, very real, not show-bizzy, just himself. We were mental, hard case Scousers on tour, and he was a very polite American gentleman. Next time we'll have a pint with him.”

"Next time?"

"Is that presumptuous?" He brought her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "May our lives be filled with next times."

Marisol rested her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for a lovely night.”

“The night is young, love.”

In a few miles Alf slowed the car to a crawl and Paul directed her attention to a large white building behind a black wrought iron gate. “EMI Studios, where we record.”

They passed Regent’s Park and the London Zoo and drove through a neighborhood of beautiful mansions and a high street lined with cafes and book stores. Alf pulled into a parking area and Paul opened the door. “Let's go fall in love.” He tossed her a wink. “With London.”

They held hands as they trudged up a hill. At the top, Paul turned her around. "Marisol, London," he said as they gazed over the lights of the city. Even half-shrouded in fog, the view was incredible. Regent’s Park and the zoo were directly below. In the distance they could just make out St. Paul’s Cathedral and the new Post Office Tower. Exotic animal cries from the zoo blended with the night chorus of insects and city sounds muted by the fog.

Marisol grinned. "Thanks for introducing us. It looks like home."

"I had the fog brought in just for you."

“So thoughtful.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and they stood quietly, enjoying the view.

“What are you thinking?” he asked after a moment.

She smiled up at him. “That I haven't enjoyed a night this much in a really long time.”

“Then we’re both overdue,” he said, sliding a hand behind her head. He pulled her closer and kissed her. His lips were gentle, warm and soft on her own, and his hand in her hair was just as gentle, his thumb stroking the skin just under her ear. She slid her hands inside his coat and leaned into him as a gust of wind blew her hair around their faces.

  
On the way home they cuddled in the back seat, keeping each other warm, the radio playing softly. She could barely keep the smile from her face. “Roy Orbison is a legend. Margo will be green with envy. Hell, my dad will be too. I loved every song he sang. I can't believe you toured with him."

“Yeah, he’s so talented. He would be in the back of the bus, strumming his guitar, testing out these amazing songs. There was this one he was working one called “Pretty Woman,” just beautiful, and we said, ‘oh, did you just write that, Roy?’”

Paul stroked his sideburn, lost in the memory. “John and I are really competitive anyway. After a few weeks with Roy we knew we had to step it up. We wrote two or three songs on the bus that tour, just because Roy was back there blowing us away with his songwriting.”

“And that voice…” Marisol said, dreamily.

“Yeah. John asked him how he is able to stand perfectly still and have that voice come out of him with no straining. He said 'It’s because you are singing from your throat, and I am singing from here,' and pointed to his diaphragm.”

Paul stretched over the front seat to adjust the radio. When he was satisfied, he leaned back against the seat and Marisol rested her head on his shoulder.

At her grandmother’s house, Paul took the keys from her hand and unlocked the front door. Marisol opened it quickly and greeted both of the dogs to keep them from barking. She pulled Paul into the foyer, conscious of Alf waiting in the car with the engine running. “When can you drive again?”

He laughed. “Next spring.”

“Oh. Well.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and nuzzled her face into his neck, breathing the tobacco and soap and outdoors scent of him, wanting to remember it. “Thank you for the best night."

They filled five minutes with kisses so intimate and gentle that afterward, she climbed the stairs in such a dreamy haze that she trod on an abandoned squeaky dog toy and tripped up the last few wooden steps, barely catching herself with a clatter and a murmured oath.

"That good, huh?" Margo stood in the doorway of the guest bedroom, rubbing a knuckle across an eyelid and yawning.

“What are you doing up?”

"You're about as stealthy as a howler monkey being shot out of a tree with a cannonball." Margo followed her sister down the hall to her bedroom and leaned against the doorframe. "How was your date with Prince Charming?"

“He took me to see Roy Orbison, backstage. It was amazing.”

“Pulling out all the stops, isn't he?”

Marisol sat on the bed and kicked off her shoes, rubbing her toes. “He was very sweet.”

“Well, yeah, they're all sweet when they're trying to get in your panties.”

“Meeting Roy was lovely, thanks for asking. Oh, by the way, we're on a first name basis, Roy and I."

"Hmm."

Marisol gave her sister a long look. "I know what your problem is."

Margo scoffed. "I don't have a problem, other than you clomping up the stairs like a drunken clog dance team and waking me up at zero dark thirty."

"You are torn between being the cool older sister and the protective older sister. But don't worry, I'm not going to do anything stupid like fall for a great looking, incredibly attentive, sexy British boy who happens to be a fantastic French kisser, because I'm only here for three more months."

"Ewwww." Margo crinkled her nose. "Thinking about my baby sister tongue kissing that random germ-filled boy is just...ewww. How could you tell me about that?"

Marisol sighed. "It's true, though."

"Ugh. I'm going back to bed." Margo pulled the door closed, then opened it again and poked her head back in the room. "I'm glad you had fun. But really, do tell him to keep his tongue inside his own mouth. He's in a band, Mari. There's no telling where that tongue has been." Margo deflected the pillow her sister threw at her. "For God's sake," she said, softly closing the door.

Humming quietly, Marisol shimmied out of the narrow dress and hung it in the closet, then rolled down her silk stockings and tossed them on a chair. She caught her reflection in the mirror as she pulled her nightgown over her head. Her hands went to the shiny ring on the chain around her neck. With a jolt of surprise and a slight twinge of guilt she realized she hadn't thought of Dan for hours.

 


	7. From Me to You

Marisol was preparing lunch in her grandmother’s kitchen when the first odd thing happened. Three days since her date with Paul, and despite having her number since the day they met, he had yet to telephone her. She knew his schedule was frantic, but no word from him after such a romantic night together gave her a twinge of disappointment. It wasn’t hard to put it out of her mind though, with Margo and the twins around. There wasn’t much time to think about Paul, or even Dan, which she suspected was the point of Margo’s visit.

Margo stood at the kitchen island, slicing ingredients for chicken salad and complaining about the lack of fresh avocados at the market.

“Maybe you and Nick should move back to California.” Marisol was at the counter squeezing lemons for a fresh pitcher of lemonade, her niece Sophie standing on a chair beside her, cataloguing every move.

“Of course we will eventually, but don’t tell Mother. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s won another round.”

Marisol dropped a squeezed lemon half onto the counter.

“I can have it,” Sophie said, reaching for the pile of lemon rinds.

“Go ahead then,” Marisol said, hiding a smile. “It won’t hurt you.”

The two year old popped a large piece of pulp into her mouth and immediately spit it out, her eyes watering and her face puckering. She sputtered and sank into a squat on the chair, hiding her face behind tiny hands.

Margo turned from the stove at the sound of Marisol’s laughter. “Are you tormenting my daughter?”

Sophie peered up at Marisol, wearing a look of betrayal.

“Sorry, pumpkin. But your sister loves lemons, don’t you Luce?” Marisol said.

At the sound of her name, Lucy wandered over and pulled herself up onto the chair.  
She picked up one of the squeezed lemons and touched it to her tongue, smacked her lips and offered it to her sister, who touched it tentatively to her own tongue and shuddered.

“See, it won’t hurt you. Your sister is right this time, but don’t do everything she does, or you might end up beneath a china cabinet.”

Margo chuckled along with her at the shared memory. When they were small Margo had somehow scaled the china hutch to reach a bowl of candy on top. When Marisol tried it next, she brought the entire piece of furniture to the ground, breaking every single one of their mother’s best dishes, as well as the china hutch.

“I can’t believe Mother didn’t kill you for that,” Margo said.

“I can’t believe I didn’t die before she had the chance.” Marisol opened an overhead cabinet and pulled out a canister of sugar. “What sort of woman hides candy on top of a hutch where her daughters can’t reach it?”

“The same sort of woman who hides the key to the liquor cabinet when they become teenagers.”

“Right! It’s like she thinks we have no ability to self-govern.”

Tiring of the lemon peel, Lucy dropped it and stretched across the counter to the radio. Seconds later there was a crackle of static followed by the treble-heavy tinny sound of Paul’s voice coming across the airwaves. “I’ve got lips that long to kiss you, and keep you satisfied, ooooh!”

“Oh come on.” Margo pulled a face.

Laughing, Marisol said, “I take it as a sign. A sign that I should kiss that boy again at the first opportunity.”

“A sign that you’re demented.” Margo tapped a finger against the side of her head.

The twins clasped hands and wiggled on the chair to the music. “No chair dancing, ladies.” Margo took each girl by one arm and setting them on the floor.

The song was still playing when their grandmother walked in with a newspaper. “What is the name of your young man’s singing group?”

“The Beatles,” Marisol answered slowly, her mind a little stuck on the phrase ‘your young man.’

“I thought so.” Grandma adjusted her eyeglasses and began reading. “During the first of two scheduled appearances by chart toppers The Beatles last night, a steward helping to control the crowd was bitten by a girl.” She peered over her glasses. “Turn down that radio, duck. That loud music tends to overstimulate the twins.”

Lucy and Sophie were darting around the kitchen after the dogs like pinballs in an arcade machine. Marisol switched off the radio and Grandma continued reading.

“Organizer Mr. Arthur Whitehead said he had about 20 stewards linking arms around the stage. ‘One of them was bitten during the performance on the top of his arm by a girl, and some youngsters even crawled under the stage,’ added Mr. Whitehead.”

“The Beatles are turning girls into animals. It’s another sign,” said Margo drily.

 

After lunch Marisol dressed the twins in sweaters and took them out in the back garden, hoping a few rays of sun would burn through the heavy cloud cover. She had confiscated a large bed sheet from the linen closet and the three of them were holding it by the edges, flipping it into the air and dashing underneath, letting it flutter down on their heads. There was endless giggling and rolling around in the grass. The girls were so easy to entertain at this age.

The back door opened and Ramsay and Lily tumbled into the garden, dragging the sheet from the girls’ heads and turning their game into a doggie tug of war. “Hey! Give it back, Grandma doesn’t want that sheet torn up!” Marisol started to give chase until she spotted her sister standing on the patio holding a small vase of yellow daisies, a wry smile on her face. She crossed the grass, her eyes fixed on the flowers.

“If you hadn’t let him put his tongue in your mouth on the first date, these would be roses,” Margo said, handing her the vase.

The card read simply, “Thank you for a lovely evening – Paul.”

_Sign number three._

***********

Marisol was sleeping soundly when Margo barged into her room late that night in a very sour mood.

“You need to tell your boyfriend we don’t accept calls after midnight,” Margo hissed.

Marisol sat straight up in bed, gathering her quilt to her chest. “What? What boyfriend? Is Paul here?”

“He’s on the phone,” Margo huffed. “Does he know what time it is in England?”

“Of course he does, he’s English. You’re not making any sense.” Marisol pushed past her sister and hurried downstairs to the sitting room to find the receiver dangling off the end table.

“Is your sister angry with me? I’ll make it up to her.” Paul said as soon as she said hello.

“She’ll get over it.”

“How are you, pretty girl?” His voice was wonderful on the phone—deep, warm, melodious. It made her feel deep, warm and melodious.

“I got the flowers, they’re lovely.”

“I wanted you to know I was thinking about you.”

He told her they sometimes traveled through the night to the next gig, arriving in the middle of the night and sleeping until late in the day. By the time he was able to call her, he knew she’d be asleep and so he’d hesitated.

“I don’t mind if you call late,” she assured him. “That’s the beauty of being on holiday. I can make my own schedule.

They talked about his recent shows and the growing reaction of the fans. Just this week someone broke into their dressing room between sets and nicked all the buttons off their shiny grey collarless suits. In another town, fans blocked the theatre entrance and the Beatles had to climb onto the roof using scaffolding and descend through a trap door.

The crowds were growing with every performance. "It must be how footballers feel when they come out and hear the crowd screaming for them," Paul said. "It's such a rush, it never gets old."

They talked about Marisol's first flying lesson two days ago, which consisted of doing the safety walk around, performing the preflight checklist, and sitting next to Nick in the cockpit, observing everything he did before and during takeoff. He showed her what all the gauges meant and taught her nerdy pilot sayings like “Time to stop thinking like a land animal and start thinking like an air animal” as they held short of the runway. At altitude he briefly turned the controls over to her, then he took over again for the landing. She was still flushed with excitement over the experience and had been eagerly studying her flight manual in preparation for the next lesson.

“I called to let you know I’ll be in London on Wednesday. I’d like to see you again if you’re free,” Paul said when there was a lull in conversation.

“I’d like that,” Marisol said, happily imagining the night to come. She curled sideways, slinging her leg over one arm of the chair, wincing when her foot tangled in the cord and sent the telephone clattering to the floor.

"What was that noise?"

"I dropped the phone."

He laughed. "Ta-ra love. See you Wednesday."

She said goodbye and reached for her _Learning to Fly_ manual, too excited to go back to sleep. She was two chapters in before she remembered that she had promised to babysit the twins at Margo’s London flat on Wednesday evening. Margo and Nick were celebrating his birthday, and it was her grandmother’s monthly Garden Club night. Marisol chewed her nail, trying to think of a solution. She would just have to figure something out.

For the rest of the week, Paul telephoned every night, usually well after midnight. Margo and the twins returned to London, and Marisol began to study her flight manual in the sitting room under an afghan until she dozed off each night, so that she would be close to the telephone and the ringing wouldn’t wake her grandmother.

When she told Paul she’d promised to babysit the twins in London on Wednesday, he immediately said, “That’ll be great, I’m dead good with kids.”

“You want to help me babysit?” she’d asked, surprised.

“A night in with a girl I have a mad crush on? Don't mind if I do,” he’d said.

Paul arrived precisely on time at the Hampstead Heath flat, dressed in jeans and a grey sweater underneath a tweed jacket and holding a box of chocolates for Margo. “Dead sorry for getting you out of bed all those times last week,” he told her.

“The husband is always the last to know,” Nick said, reaching around Margo and shaking Paul’s hand. Nick and Paul chatted about London restaurants while Margo finished getting ready. Trader Vic’s had just opened a new location in the London Hilton and Nick and Margo were meeting friends there.

The twins had been fed and bathed and dressed in their pajamas and were ready to party as soon as their parents stepped out the door. Unlike Dan, who used to seem overwhelmed and unsure of how to interact with toddlers, Paul jumped straight into the fray like a lion tamer. He built a tent between the two living room sofas using sheets, string and clothes pins, and Marisol filled it with blankets and pillows and a bowl of healthy snacks. They both crawled inside with the girls, playing with their dolls and reading stories to them and making eyes at each other over their heads. Paul was as patient and gentle and enthusiastic as a preschool teacher. Marisol momentarily wondered if he was simply being amiable to impress her. Then she told Lucy to "get your sister's toes out of your mouth and eat your raisins" and he threw back his head and laughed with such gusto that she realized he was truly enjoying himself.

When the girls got antsy, Paul chased them around the flat, jumping out from behind furniture and making them scream with delight. This turned into a rousing game of hide and seek and ended with ring around the rosy. Marisol went into the kitchen to wash the girls' drink cups and snack bowls. When she came back, Paul had taught them to say 'Guten Morgen Mama' and they were sitting in the sofa working on 'Gute-Nacht Papa.'

"Why are you teaching my nieces German?" Marisol asked, joining them on the sofa.

"Because this is the best age for them to learn a second language," Paul said reasonably.

"Yes, but why German?" she persisted. "They haven't even learned to speak the English language yet."

"Oh, I dunno, it's the other language I know best. And who knows, maybe they'll grow up and decide to annex Poland."

"What?!"

"Nah, just kidding. Forgive and forget."

Marisol stared at him for a minute and burst out laughing.

Paul smiled. ”I was wondering how long it was going to take to get you to laugh like that.”

"All it took was a little inappropriate ethnic humor." She giggled, remembering something her father had once said. "How does every English joke start?"

"I dunno, how?"

"By looking over your shoulder," she said, slapping him on the knee.

"In Liverpool, that is dead true.”

Finally exhausted, the girls fell asleep like bookends on either side of the sofa, Paul and Marisol sitting between them sharing a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a dish of cheese and bread and pears while they watched television.

Nick and Margo returned just as Roger Moore narrowly survived being held prisoner by rebels in the mountains of Mexico, insuring The Saint could continue stealing from the rich and keeping the loot for himself for at least another week.

‘You’re welcome to stay, watch television, whatever you young folks do on a second date,” Margo said, as Nick carried the girls off to bed.

“Why thank you, ma’am.” Paul drawled, in a terrible imitation of an American accent. “I reckon we’ll ride the subway down to the five and dime and have ourselves a milk shake.”

Margo gave a little well-fancy-that smile and left them alone.

Outside on the balcony Paul lit a cigarette while he surveyed the neighborhood. “Primrose Hill, where we went the other night, is over there.” He gestured with the cigarette. “Parliament Hill is that way. I’ve worked it out exactly where we are. Do you fancy a walk?”

It was one of those overcast autumn nights when the sky glowed without the benefit of moonlight. A heavy dome of white clouds reflected the lights of the city back to the ground, casting a peachy gleam over the streets.

They walked up Heath Street for twenty minutes, eventually turning down a muddy track into a little forest. It felt like they were going through a tree tunnel. Marisol clung to Paul’s hand. “Where in the world are you taking me?”

“To a secret garden.”

“I’m pretty sure I just saw a bat.”

“Nah. Twas only a flying squirrel.”

“It was hanging upside down. Roosting, I believe you’d call it.”

“Oh that? Merely a blackbird. Drunken blackbird.”

She giggled, still feeling the effects of the half bottle of wine. “How can you tell if a blackbird is drunk?”

He patted her arm. “When it hangs upside down, pretending to be a bat.”

They entered a gate on the left that led to a spiral staircase. At the top, Marisol couldn’t believe her eyes. They were on a long raised walkway, overgrown with vines and exotic flowers, a sprawling complex of colonnaded terraces and wonderfully dramatic gardens. The twisted vines and naked rose bushes gave the architecture an eerie quality in the reflected light that took her breath away. At one end was an ornamental fish pond, but they quickly found the best spot— a little alcove with a bench and sweeping views of London and the Heath.

Marisol joined Paul on the bench, delighted with the tranquil, secretive feel of the place. The air smelled of jasmine and wisteria and dozens of other flowers she couldn’t have named. She leaned her head on his shoulder, gazing out at the stunning garden and vista. “I can just picture a bride and groom under the arbor over there,” she said dreamily.

“Planning your wedding?”

“Mine?" She made a scoffing sound. "Er, hardly.”

He pursed his lips. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

"I suppose everyone has a story." She tilted her head to look at him, her gaze lingering on his perfect profile. "I bet you’ve never had your heart broken.”

“You would lose that bet.” He lit a cigarette.

After a respectful moment of silence, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shrugged. “I s’pose.” After a long draw on the cigarette, he began. “Her name was Susan. She had long dark hair and these slanted, almost Oriental eyes. Lips that tasted like cherry bubblegum. Every day we’d meet at the playground where all the kids would gather after school, sneak away and snog for a couple of hours. I fell for her like a ton of bricks.” He blew out a breath of smoke. “Then one day I showed up at the playground and found her on the double swing with my mate Ivan. Hot and heavy one day and then ‘Poof!’ out of nowhere, no explanation, she’s just gone.”

“Ouch.” Marisol shook her head sadly. “How long had you been together?”

He tapped the ash from his cigarette and considered the clouds before speaking. “Four days,” he said dramatically.

Marisol snorted a laugh, then gave him a shove. “I thought you were being serious.”

His look was incredulous. “I am dead serious. How can you laugh right now?”

“Four days?” she said dubiously.

“Were you ever fourteen? Nothing will ever hurt that bad again. No girl could ever be so cruel.”

Fourteen. She remembered Paul saying the lost his mother at that age. She brushed her lips against his cheek. “Susan is a damn fool.”

He nodded. “Aye, that she is.”

“I bet she’s sorry now.”

“No, but Ivan is. He married her.”

“Hmm,” she said, with a little smile.

He peered at her, his head cocked to one side. “So what’s your story? You look like you have one.”

There was no way she was going to start talking about what happened with Dan and ruin this night. Maybe some other day, when the timing was right. As if there is a good time to morph from someone who seems to have it together into a blubbering, sobbing, mascara-streaked wreck of a mess, right in front of your date's eyes.

She sighed. “It's a typical story. Girl meets boy, girl loses boy and runs away to grandma's house in England.”

“Go on. He must have been stark staring mad to let you get away.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “I don’t think he meant to do it.”

He put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. “Well. Heartbreak isn’t fatal, you know. You recover eventually or you learn to live with it.”

“Like a dog with three legs.”

“Exactly like that.”

Marisol watched him smoke for a minute before taking the cigarette from his hand and examining it.

“You smoke?” he asked, sounding surprised as she brought it to her lips.

She took a small drag and quickly handed it back. “Still no,” she said between coughs. “It's no better than the American ones.”

“Loads of British things are better than American, though. British lovers, for example, off the top of me head. But not necessarily smokes,” Paul shook his head and took a drag from the cigarette. “Don’t start. Terrible habit.” He tilted his head back against the stone wall and blew a ring of smoke over their heads.

She watched him, noticing the tiredness around his eyes. "Is it getting to you, all the traveling and madness?"

"Yeah, sure, the travel is a drag, but it's the way it has to be right now. We have to do this to make it to the top, to be the best bloody rock ’n' roll band in the world."

"Is that what you want?"

He looked startled, then grinned. "Of course. I've never understood that question. I've had this feeling all my life. I thought everyone had it."

"What feeling?"

"All my life I've had this yearning...it's like I'm a tent, straining at the stakes, longing to be a kite...I don't know how to put it into words, really."

She smiled. "You just did, beautifully." She entwined her arm with his and leaned against him. "I guess that feeling is what separates you from the normal, average mortals who aren't going to make it to the top."

"You mean those poor, non-obsessed wankers who don't spend ten hours a day practicing guitar until their fingers bleed?"

"The ones who sleep in their own beds 365 nights of the year."

"What a drag it must be to be mortal." He smiled.

"What a drag it must be to be an earthbound kite," she said, returning the smile.

They talked and talked, until a gust of wind blew an eddy of leaves around their feet and she shivered. “It’s getting right cold,” Paul said. “Must get you home and warm you up.”

On their way out of the park they crossed a small stone bridge and followed a winding path that led to a reflecting pool with a fountain in the center. Paul whistled as they walked, a melody she'd never heard before. He strayed from the path to gather a handful of small white and lavender blooms and presented them to her with a flourish.

“Freesia,” Marisol said, breathing in the delicate scent and arranging the flowers into a bouquet.

“All we need is music.”

“It’s already been perfectly lovely,” she assured him.

A rusty gate squeaked in protest as they left the park. Paul stopped suddenly, eying a lone Volkswagen Beetle parked at the curb. He let go of her hand and circled the car, fingers trailing along the leather sunroof. As he rounded the car once more, he checked up and down the quiet street of closed restaurants and stores. 

“Mari, help me with this, I don’t want to wreck anything.”

She watched him from the sidewalk, mouth agape. “What are you doing? Because it almost looks like you’re breaking into that car.”

“Only boosting the ambiance. Give us a hand.”

Marisol let the flowers flutter to the sidewalk. “Heavens to Betsy. I can’t believe I’m an accessory to this.”

“It’s only a crank mechanism. Everything has it’s way, remember that, Mari, it’s crucial.” He smiled at her over the top of the car. “Do you trust me?”

“Apparently.”

They slowly edged back the leather roof until there was a small opening, and Paul indicated for her to stop tugging. He reached into the car and, to her amazement, clicked on the radio and tuned the dial through a scratch of static.

“You don’t need an ignition key for the radio?”

When his head reappeared he was wearing a huge grin as the opening bars of “Strangers in the Night” began to play. With the volume sounding as loud as it would go, he rounded the car, grabbed her hand and pulled her back through the gate. They reached the stone framed pool with its gurgling fountain and stopped. Paul shrugged out of his jacket and placed it over her shoulders, drawing it closed in front of her. It smelled of tobacco and Paul. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

When she nodded, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. She slipped one arm around his back and kept her other hand between them, feeling his heart beating against her palm. In the near distance a dog began to howl, which they found hilarious. They danced and giggled until “Strangers in the Night” turned into “Chances Are.”

“I love this one,” Marisol said, leaning against him, burrowing her face into his neck, their bodies swaying to the music. She hadn’t slow danced with anyone in who knew how long, hadn’t been held in a man’s arms in months. It felt as safe and right and wonderful as she remembered. When she lifted her face he kissed her lips and they didn’t stop dancing.

They danced and kissed until “Chances Are” turned into a news bulletin. A Vickers Viking aircraft from London to France had crashed into a mountain, killing all onboard.

They pulled apart, gazing at each other, wide-eyed. “How horrible,” Marisol said. “I wonder if was because of weather, or some sort of navigational error.”

Paul’s brow furrowed as the news continued. “Are you quite sure about these flying lessons of yours?”

“Nick won’t take me up unless the weather is perfect. Visual flying only to start.”

According to the radio broadcaster, another Vickers turboprop crashed earlier in the day en route to New Delhi.

“Two in one day, what terrible news,” Marisol said. “Are you nervous about flying?”

“No more than anyone else, I suppose. Once when we took off from Speke in Liverpool, the door fell off into the River Mersey. We thought we were going to get sucked out.”

“Well that just goes to show the airplane didn’t need even need all the doors to be airworthy, right?”

“If you say so.”

"My Papa Hemingway survived two plane crashes in Africa. His sightseeing plane crashed and then the rescue plane crashed and burned on takeoff. I was about ten years old. The papers said he'd been killed, my father was frantic. Then we get a telegram from him. I will never forget the words: "Worn out from these kites falling all over Africa. My luck, she is running very good.”

"Jesus."

A car turned in at the end of the street, splashing them with light. They dashed back to the VW. Marisol slid her arms into the sleeves of Paul’s coat and waited while Paul switched off the radio. She helped him inch the sunroof closed. He gave it a pat. “Good as new.”

Marisol collected the flowers and tucked them underneath a windshield wiper. “Thank you to whoever owns this cute little Beetle.”

Illuminated in the headlights of the approaching car, they reached for one another’s hands and set out into the windy night.

 


	8. This Boy

Marisol sat sideways on the floral chintz easy chair, her shoulder against the back and her legs dangling over the arm, one foot swinging in time as Paul's pure, husky voice crooned from the hifi:

 _as I write this letter, ooohhh_  
_send my love to you_  
_you know I want you to remember that I’ll always, yeahhh,_  
_be in love with you_

 _That voice._ Since their last date they'd talked on the phone every night, never running out of things to say to each other. She was accustomed to his accent and found it so beautifully melodic she never wanted him to stop talking. He seemed equally interested in hearing her describe her life in America, a place he thought of as exotic and fascinating. His positive outlook on life was infectious, like a tonic.

Marisol closed the book in her lap and stretched. She was already more content here in England than she'd been in months. Her grandmother's companionship and Paul's attention seemed to be exactly what she needed.

Since Margo had returned to London with the twins, Marisol and her grandmother had settled into a cozy routine of baking, marketing and visiting friends. They would experiment with different recipes for dinner and later drink tea while reading novels or watching _The Saint_ or _Coronation Street_ on the small black and white television in the sitting room.

She looked up as her grandmother came in with the post, lowering the volume on the hifi before perching on the arm of the chair. "This just came for you, duckie. At least I think it's meant for you."

Marisol examined the neat block printing on the small parcel addressed to "Mary Soul Hemingway." She chuckled to herself. "I don't know why he does that."

She tore off the brown paper wrapping and examined the small book in her hands. It was a small green hardcover with deckle edged pages, a first edition copy of _Wind, Sand and Stars_ by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. She knew vaguely of the author, best known for writing _The Little Prince_ , which her grandfather had owned and appreciated. She remembered Saint-Exupery was a French pilot who disappeared while flying over North Africa during the War.

She turned a few pages and smiled, noticing he spelled her name correctly in the inscription.

_Marisol, I thought of you when I saw this quote:_

_"For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return."_

_For the girl with her eyes turned to the sky- I hope you will enjoy the journey and the book._

_So happy you're in my Universe,_

_xxx Paul xxx_

"Ohhhhh..." Marisol didn't realize she was sighing aloud until her grandmother looked up from a letter and peered over her shoulder.

"My, such a lot of kisses."

"Oh, Grandma, isn't this sweet?" She hugged the book to her chest.

"He's not backward at coming forward, is he? That boy could charm the knickers off a nun." She pushed herself up from the chair. "I think I'll have a cuppa. Care to join me?"

They'd just finished tea when the phone rang. Marisol collected their cups and saucers and rinsed them in the sink, idly listening to her grandmother's side of the conversation.

"Yes, dear, we've had a lovely week.... no rain to speak of... we went to the flea market over in Haywards Heath yesterday... yes, here she is."

Marisol straightened and turned from the sink. "Who is it?"

"That one has a voice you could pour on pancakes. He could sell a cage to a lion, that one," her grandmother muttered, handing her the phone.

"Hello?" Marisol said.

"All right, Beauty?"

The sound of Paul's voice brought an instant smile to her face. "Oh, hey, I thought you were one of my grandmother's friends."

"I am one of your grandmother's friends."

"Mmm. She does seem to have a lot to say about you."

"We've had a lot of nice chats lately, your grandma and I."

"I'm sure she's impressed by the lovely first edition you just sent me. I love it, thank you."

"Good, good. Listen, this is very sort of last minute, but we were meant to record tonight and it's been canceled. I'm going to pop round to John's and finish a song. Would you like to come round and meet Cynthia?"

"Of course! That sounds fun."

"Great! I'll fetch you at half past five."

Marisol hung up the phone with a whoop.

Her grandmother pressed a hand to her throat. "One does not make sounds like that while in England, duck."

"Sorry, Grandma." Marisol raced out of the kitchen, nearly tripping over a dog. "Paul's on his way, we're going to London to write a song or something," she shouted on her way into the bathroom.

"Is that your indoor voice, love?" 

Marisol poked her head out of the bathroom and in a softer voice asked, "Do we have any of the reserve wine left that I brought from California?"

"I should think so."

"Good, I'll bring John and his wife a bottle."

As she lathered her hair with lavender scented shampoo under the warm spray, she softly sang the lyrics to an engaging, infectious song that had been running through her mind all day.

"I think of you and things you do, go 'round my head, the things you said, like I love only you—"

Her voice broke off when she realized the source of the song she couldn't seem to shake. Of all the catchy, emotionally direct, singable songs on the album Paul had given her, the one on an endless loop inside her head was a McCartney - Lennon creation. She knew it was highly unusual for a group to write their own material. The Beatles were anything but an ordinary band.

Two hours later, dressed in a slender grey skirt and a purple silk buttoned blouse, Marisol opened the front door to see Neil standing at the front door with Paul.

"What, no chauffeur hat?" she teased Neil.

"There isn't a closet big enough for all the hats I wear in this job," Neil said.

Paul raised an umbrella and they stepped out into a drizzly afternoon, the clouds a grey dome in the sky. They climbed into an older dark green Ford Consul. Paul leaned over the front seat and fiddled with the radio until he found a station playing what sounded like country and western. "How was your week?" he asked.

"Good, how was yours?"

"Better than a wet weekend in Wigan."

Marisol laughed. "A what?"

"Wigan. You know, where they make Uncle Joe's mint balls."

Two minutes in Paul's company and she was already happily grinning at him.

"What did you think of Alf?" Neil asked, when they were on the road heading out of town.

"He seemed nice," Marisol said.

Paul snickered. "Cor, we have so many funny stories about him. Neil, remember when he lost the guitar?"

Neil laughed and told Marisol the story. They'd been flagged down after a show by a lorry driver who said he'd seen a banjo fall from the back of the car. When Alf told the band what had happened, he'd been met with stony silence.

Neil held her eyes in the rear view mirror and smiled. "A few minutes later, John called him over to the window. 'Hey, Alf,' he said, 'There's a bonus for you if you find that guitar.' Alf said, 'Yeah, John, what's that?' And John said, 'You can have your job back.'"

Paul beamed as he watched Marisol laughing.

"Remember that night Alf was weaving through a lot full of fans and John was in the backseat making noises like a fighter pilot?" Paul chuckled with the memory.

"Has he ever hit anyone?" Marisol asked.

"Only once, right Neil? That policeman?"

"Oh my god," Marisol said, her hand going to her mouth.

"It was only his foot," Paul said. "Yeah, we felt a thump, and all of us turned around to look out the back window. We saw a policeman grabbing his foot, and John yelled, 'Alf, turn around, he's still alive!'

Marisol burst out laughing. "John sounds hilarious."

"Do you think John's a funny chap, Neil?"

"No, he's a real stuffed shirt, that one."

"What can I say about John," Paul mused. "He's a genius, for one. If he likes you, he's the most loyal friend on earth. But he has a razor sharp wit and you never know if you're going to be on the receiving end of one of his zingers or having a laugh with him at someone else's expense."

"What is Cynthia like?"

"Cyn is a lovely girl, not a mean bone in her body. Down to earth, quiet. Nurturing."

It was dark and drizzling rain by the time they reached London. Neil pulled the car to a curb outside a six story red brick building. A dozen or so girls milled around the front steps, clutching cameras and autograph books beneath their umbrellas.

Camera shutters clicked and flashbulbs popped around them and the girls were suddenly shouting and running in their direction. Marisol tucked the bottle of wine she'd brought under one arm and clung to Neil's elbow with the other, ducking under his large black umbrella. They hurried through the misty rain ahead of Paul. When they got to the front door, Neil pushed her inside at the sound of a loud buzz.

"Wait here for Paul." He deposited the guitar case and a scuffed briefcase at her feet and let the door swing shut behind him.

Shivering lightly, she looked around the entryway, her gaze resting on the battered brown briefcase with its bronze, rusting buckles. She stepped over it and sat down on the steps to wait. Through the clouded panes of glass on the front door she watched the shadows of the excited girls clustering around Paul and Neil and listened to their chatter.

"Paul, where do you live? Are you still in Mayfair?" a girl asked.

"Oh you know, here and there," Paul answered.

"Are you still dating Jane Asher?"

"Jane who?"

The girls tittered.

"Do you still like jelly babies?"

"Jelly babies. Well. We've gotten crates of them since it was written up in the papers, you see, so we've gone right off them. We still like peppermint creams and chocolate drops and dolly mixtures, all those sorts of things."

"Who is that girl you're with?"

"My sister. All right? Everyone good? Sorry, got to go, have a good night."

"Paul! Can you ask John to come down?"

"Not tonight, he's working. Go on home girls, it's raining."

At the sound of a brisk knock, Marisol jumped up to open the door. Paul dashed inside and shook the rain from his hair, tossing the collapsed umbrella into a corner.

On the other side of the door were squeals and shrieks and "Cor, those eyes!" and "He touched my hand!" Someone yelled, "Paul, I'm saving myself for you!"

Paul rolled his eyes. "Welcome to my world." He took her hand, tucked the briefcase under one arm and hoisted his guitar case. They climbed ten flights of dark, narrow stairs, hearts racing and breathless by the time they reached the fifth floor.

A slender, sweet faced, brown-eyed blonde welcomed them inside the flat. Paul kissed her on the cheek, still catching his breath.

"Cyn, this is Marisol, who holds the key to my heart."

Marisol's smile turned into a surprised laugh.

"Mari, meet my favorite Beatles bride, the lovely Cynthia Lennon," he continued.

Cynthia clasped Marisol's hand lightly. "So pleased to meet you, do come in." Her smile was warm and relaxed. Marisol liked her immediately. "Make yourself at home, I was just going to get Julian up from his nap."

"I'm too tired to rock, John." Paul panted in exaggerated gasps.

John was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of an electric fireplace, guitar on his lap. "Hemingway, welcome to our humble abode. It's not Finca Vigia, but make yourself at home if you can."

Marisol smiled and looked around the room. A hifi stood in one corner surrounded by stacks of records. There was a small television playing with the sound turned off. A dark green easy chair, a small coffee table and a brown velvet sofa were the only pieces of furniture. It was a dark room with the only window covered by heavy brown drapes. The walls were decorated with framed family photographs, band pictures and show posters.

Cynthia returned carrying a somber dark-eyed infant with a head of brown hair.

"Oh my goodness, where did you come from?" Marisol reached for the baby's tiny sock clad foot.

"That's what I'd like to know," John said.

"Hey Jules," Paul slung his guitar over his shoulder and paused to ruffle the baby's hair. "Cyn, can we open these drapes?" He pulled one of the heavy curtains aside and peered out a rain spattered window.

"No, some fans moved in across the street only to spy on us. We never open them any more."

"That's shite." Paul let the curtain drop and settled onto the rug next to John. "Right, then. We have thirty minutes to produce genius. And no more time for conversation." He began tuning his guitar.

"Just another day," John said. "D major, right?"

"Let's go have a cuppa," Cynthia said to Marisol. "Dinner is almost ready."

Marisol followed her into the small kitchen. "What can I do?"

"Hold Julian? I'm just going to warm his bottle and turn the kettle on."

Marisol placed the wine on the countertop and reached for the baby. "You've given me the good job."

Julian was a contented baby with bright eyes that tracked his mother's movements around the room. Marisol sat at the small kitchen table and cuddled him on her lap as she and Cynthia made tentative conversation about the Beatles and how their lives had changed in the past year.

Cynthia handed her a warmed bottle and Marisol smiled as the baby eagerly grasped it with both hands, leaning back in her arms and staring up into her eyes. "Oh, I am already in love with you, you adorable little thing."

"There is nothing like it, is there?" Cynthia beamed, brushing her knuckles across the infant's cheek. "I didn't think I was ready to be a mother until they put him in my arms, and now he's my raison d'être."

When the tea was ready, Cynthia set a steaming mug on the table in front of Marisol and delivered a tray of tea to Paul and John. She came back with a full ashtray, emptied it into the trash and returned it to the living room. As the kitchen door swung open and closed behind her, Marisol heard snatches of a lilting, melodic ballad.

"Do they always get along so well? I mean, since they spend much time together on the road?" Marisol asked when Cynthia was back.

"For the most part. They're both very competitive." Her eyes were gentle and contemplative as she gazed down at her baby. "John and Paul are like two people pulling on a rope, smiling at each other and pulling all the time with all their might. The tension between the two of them makes for a lot of creative energy."

When John called them into the front room, Cynthia motioned for Marisol to have a seat on the sofa. Marisol held Julian against her shoulder, rubbing his tiny back, while Cynthia wandered in and out of the kitchen, carrying plates and glasses, napkins and silverware and arranging everything on the small coffee table in front of the sofa.

Paul and John sat knee to knee, guitars on their laps, surrounded by a sea of notebook paper. It looked like they had upended a wastebasket onto the carpet. Dozens of sheets littered the floor and other pages spilled out of the briefcase. She could see the pages had been ripped from an old-fashioned school exercise book and were full of scrawled, handwritten lines in black and blue ink.

Marisol realized for the first time that Paul was playing the guitar left-handed. His hands mirrored John's as they strummed a three chord melancholy intro.

John suddenly stopped playing. "Wait...wait..."

"What is wrong?" Paul said, dramatically drawing out the words.

"I'm all out of tune. I'm so sorry, I feel so stupid, I don't know what to do."

Paul began speaking in an aristocratic British accent that sounded straight out of a Jane Austen adaptation. "Look, Terrence, if you want to resign from the amateur dramatics, do."

John tuned his guitar and answered back, sounding like an Oscar Wilde character. "It's not that. I've put a lot of money and thought into the whole thing."

"Yes, but we're only doing walk-ons and you've farted those up."

"Cyn knows. Sometimes I come home and I tell her, Cyn, I just can't get the note."

"Do you want to fight?"

"No. Giz a kiss."

Marisol laughed and the baby tilted his head back and blinked at her. "What are they doing?" she asked Cynthia.

"I've no idea. Probably something from the Goon show."

"Are you ready?" Paul asked. "Let's take it from the top and run it."

They repeated the intro which led into a soft ballad with a waltz-like tempo. They sang an intricate close harmony into each other's faces, John taking the lower, lead vocal line and Paul the higher notes. "That boy took my love away, he'll regret it someday, but this boy wants you back again."

The song sounded like nothing on the Beatles album she'd been listening to nonstop for the last several weeks. It reminded her of Smoky Robinson with similar doo-wop chord changes and melody.

Julian pushed against her shoulder with his little fists, his head turning away from her neck. Marisol positioned him in her lap so he could see where the music was coming from. He waved his arms and crowed at the sight of his father and John acknowledged him with a brief nod, his face softening as he sang, losing its usual expression. The cockiness and tough guy demeanor melted away.

A bridge with a melody line a full octave higher followed the first two verses, Paul singing a high "ahhhhh" while John belted out a gut-wrenching solo vocal, "That boy, won't be happy, till he sees you crryyyyyyyy," holding out the word for a full two measures.

Another verse followed, then they strummed a final chord together and turned to the girls for their reactions.

"Bravo!" Cynthia clapped from the kitchen doorway. "I love the third harmony line. It's going to be lovely." She went into the kitchen and they heard the oven door opening.

"That gave me chills," Marisol said. "Did you just write it?"

"We wrote it in a hotel room a few weeks ago, where we write most of our songs nowadays. Just needed to work on the harmonies before getting in the studio. We've worked out a third part for George." Paul shrugged off the guitar and began collecting the papers on the floor and carefully stacking them in the briefcase.

John stood and stretched. "Paul and that case are inseparable," he said to Marisol. "He treats it like the Crown Jewels." He saw her smile and elaborated. "It's like the American president's emergency box that goes with him everywhere and contains all the secret codes needed to launch a nuclear attack."

With the briefcase carefully latched and positioned by the front door, Paul joined Marisol on the sofa and reached for Julian.

"That song," Marisol continued, "it's nothing like the songs on your album."

"We like all sorts of music, not only rock. We think that's what distinguishes us," John said.

"That and the fact that women find us so attractive, don't they John?" Paul added.

"They love us so much they want to tear us apart."

Paul held Julian over his head and wiggled him, trying to make him laugh.

"Careful," Marisol said, "he just finished a bottle."

Paul quickly draped the baby across his knees and patted his back. Julian immediately let out a loud burp. "There it is!" Paul said.

Marisol watched with rounded eyes. "You seem to know your way around a baby."

Paul shrugged. "I have loads of cousins."

John walked away from the hifi, and Marisol recognized the electric piano opening riffs of "What'd I Say" followed by the soulful voice of Ray Charles.

Cynthia appeared with a shepherd's pie, steaming from the oven, and the room was filled with the appetizing aroma of beef and vegetables.

"That looks great Cyn." Paul rubbed his flat stomach. "I could eat a donkey and have room for a doughnut."

They sat on the floor around the small coffee table and propped Julian beside them against a stack of pillows.

"Marisol brought the wine," Cynthia told John, handing him the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a corkscrew.

"Did she now." He uncorked the bottle and filled the glasses before examining the bottle. "Wine from California. What will the colonists try next."

"It's quite good," Paul said after a first sip.

"This is from our reserves last year, it's one of my favorites," Marisol said.

"What does that mean, your reserves?"

"These grapes stayed on the vine the longest. They're more flavorful."

"It's lovely," Cynthia said, "it reminds me of Pouilly-Fume."

Marisol nodded. "That's what my brother was going for. He interned in Burgundy. This batch was aged in real French oak barrels, and he did some tweaking with the temperature."

John raised his glass in a toast. "Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends."

Cynthia served everyone a large helping of minced meat and vegetables topped with browned mashed potatoes.

"Delicious, Cyn," Paul said as they tucked into the food.

"Mmm, it really is good," Marisol agreed. "You can't get this in America."

Paul watched her thoughtfully while he finished a bite and swallowed.

"Can you imagine, John, this one growing up in a vineyard in California next door to movie stars, while we were all slogging through the cold rain in a Northern seaport, climbing through bomb sites to get to the bus depot—"

"—Trying not to get murdered down at the docks," John added. He pointed his fork at Marisol. "You seem like one of those girls who grew up with an infinite array of life choices, getting ponies as birthday gifts."

Marisol paused a beat. "Completely untrue. The pony was for Christmas."

"Ten bob says you even had indoor plumbing," Paul said.

Marisol laughed. "Um...Yes."

"I remember the day we got indoor plumbing. And a television for the Coronation. Remember that John? You suddenly saw antennae going up all along the street because everyone wanted to watch the Coronation."

"Not Cyn, though," John said. "She was a right Hoylake princess, dead snobby. You were probably at the Coronation, weren't you Cyn?"

Cynthia smiled. "Maybe the next one."

John got up and changed the album on the hifi.

"That song you just wrote, I can't believe it came out of your brains--harmonies and melody and lyrics and everything," Marisol said.

"They're like typewriters," Cynthia said. "They'll start a song, and if it's not finished in ten minutes they throw it away and start another."

"We listen to music constantly. You surround yourself with art and creative people, you see, that's how it's done," Paul said. He pulled off a chunk of bread and handed the basket to Marisol. "What about your grandfather? What was Ernest Hemingway's key to being a successful writer?"

"Never be sober?" John offered, joining the table.

Paul winced. "John!"

Marisol let out a burst of laughter. "It's okay, I know the men in my family can be a bit epicurean."

Paul visibly relaxed but seemed to shoot John a warning look.

"Paul, I'm quoting her grandfather here: Write drunk, edit sober," John said.

All eyes turned to Marisol for confirmation.

She shrugged, still smiling softly. "It sounds like him. I know he said all first drafts are shit."

"Do you write?" Cynthia asked.

"No. I have movies playing in my head all the time but I haven't written them down."

"Ah. Do you lack the necessary misery?" John asked.

She smiled. "I lack the necessary talent. And I'm not drunk enough."

John nodded. "That would explain it."

Paul picked up the wine bottle and refilled the glasses. "John's written a book."

"I don't know if you can call it a book. It's a collection of words and things with drawings and other rubbish," John said, straight-faced. "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something brown."

"You're being modest," Cynthia said.

"Oh, it's quite good," Paul added.

"What are we listening to?" Marisol asked. "This music is so relaxing I can't stand it."

"Getz and Byrd, Desafinado," John said. "This music is why I'm a father."

"John, shush." Cynthia gave him a playful shove.

"Bossanova and jazz," Paul said. "This LP is so exquisite you can taste it."

"Julian likes it," Marisol said. The baby chewed his fist quietly, staring at the ceiling in an attitude of listening attentively.

"He seems to love music," Cynthia agreed.

"Imagine that." John finished the last of his drink and examined the empty glass. "Wine flies when you're having fun."

The hearty meal, amiable small talk, soothing music and the wine all combined to give Marisol a heady feeling of contentment. She felt like she'd known these people for years. She felt like she belonged here in this tiny, cozy flat, five stories above the London traffic on a drizzly September night.

When they were sated and there was nothing left but crumbs, Cynthia handed the baby to John while she and Marisol carried the dishes to the kitchen. Cynthia filled the sink with hot water and handed Marisol a tea towel. "How long have you known Paul?"

"Oh...only a few weeks. Our first date was only a week or so ago, he took me to see Roy Orbison."

"He seems quite taken with you."

Marisol smiled. "He's very charming, but for all I know he's like that with all the girls."

Cynthia gave her a direct look. "He does love the ladies."

Marisol felt her heart sink at the other girl's clear warning. Cynthia continued looking at her until Marisol blinked away. "Well, we're just friends. I'm only here for a few months anyway," she said brightly.

"You've met him at a very interesting time," Cynthia mused. "Girls all over the country are suddenly throwing themselves at him. At all of them, really. It's little wonder he's such a playboy." She handed Marisol a plate to dry.

Marisol sucked in a breath, lost for a response, then finally managed to mutter, "Fame is a strange thing." She cleared her throat. "Is it changing them, do you think?"

Cynthia took a moment to consider the question. "It's funny, they're in the center of it and protected from it, and honestly too busy to do much reflecting on what's happening. It's all a blur."

They finished the dishes mostly in companionable silence, with Marisol wondering why Cynthia had felt the need to warn her about Paul's womanizing and hoping the subject wouldn't come up again. She already liked Paul. A lot. She didn't want to know about his exploits with other women.

When they came back to the living room, Paul was sorting through a collection of 45's and adding to a stack on the turntable. He turned up the volume on the hifi and danced over to Marisol, pulling her to the center of the small room. "Dance with me, Beauty."

She kicked off her heels and followed his moves. He was, predictably, a natural dancer, full of rhythm, graceful and confident.

"Get a pair of dancing shoes..." Paul sang to her. "Well with your lover by your side don't you know you're gonna have a lot of pleasure...."

Marisol paused to catch her breath as the next record dropped onto the turntable. "No time to rest, baby, this one's for you." Paul grabbed her by the hand and spun her into his arms, singing, "deep in the heart of Texas, round the Frisco bay."

"Two things you should never say to a San Franciscan: Cali and Frisco," she told him, breathless as she matched her steps to his.

"What shall I call it then, when you take me home to meet your frightening dad?"

She laughed. "The City. Everyone will know what you mean."

He spun her out and back into his arms, crooning, "Everybody wants to dance with sweet little eighteen."

"Let's slow it down a little," he said when the song ended. He selected another record and pulled her into his arms as Arthur Alexander's soulful "Soldier of Love" began to play. "Ah. Here's our song."

She smiled up at him. "We have a song?"

"We have all the songs." He bent his head and nuzzled his face into her neck. She resisted for mere seconds before letting herself melt against him, her cheek resting on his shoulder, his breath in her ear.

"Use your arms for lovin' me, baby that's the way it's gotta be..." He murmured/sang into her ear, sending shivers down her spine. Marisol relaxed in his arms, the soap and water scent of his body only a breath away from hers. What was it about human chemistry, the way some people smell like home? Paul smelled amazing and felt even better in her arms. They danced like they were made for each other.

Across the tiny room, she saw Cynthia reach for John's hand. He shook his head and lit a cigarette. Cynthia cuddled Julian in her arms, dancing in place in front of the sofa, until she left the room at the sound of a phone ringing somewhere in the flat.

A second slow song was ending as Cynthia came back from the phone call. She said to John, "My mother could move into Julian's room, help us with the babysitting."

"She could do," John said. "Or, I could glue my arse to a kitchen chair and you could kick me down a stairwell. Both about as enjoyable. Both about as bloody likely to happen."

He got up and turned off the hifi and began setting up a reel to reel tape player. "Ready to hear the next Beatles LP?"

"Of course!" Marisol said, clapping her hands together.

"It's going to be so grand." Cynthia indicated for Marisol to join her on the sofa while Paul and John readied the tape and started the first track.

It was an eloquently simple country and western sounding piece sung by Paul, pledging to write home every day and send all his loving from the road. There was a walking bass line and quickly strummed triplets on John's rhythm guitar and a Nashville style guitar solo in the middle.

"That's the first song where I wrote the words without the tune," Paul said when the song finished.

"You wrote that?" Marisol asked.

"On the bus with Roy. I wrote the tune on the piano when we got to the gig."

"It's one of his best," John admitted. "But I play a pretty mean guitar in the back."

"I love it," Marisol said honestly.

"John wrote this one," Paul said, as the music started again.

It was a restlessly dark and moody ballad that sounded like something the Drifters would sing. She was mesmerized by John's distinctive voice pleading "whenever I want to kiss you, yeah, all I gotta do is whisper in your ear the words you long to hear and I'll be kissing you."

"That's me trying to do Smokey Robinson again," John said. "I wrote it thinking of the American market, you know, a phone song."

They listened quietly for a minute. "Paul is playing chords on the bass, do you hear that?" said John.

"It's amazing," Marisol said, with an appreciative sigh.

"What was that squeak?" Paul asked when the song ended.

"I think it's Ringo's bass drum pedal."

"We've got to get that out."

"Nah," John said, "nobody will ever notice."

Cynthia brought out an armful of pillows and blankets in time to watch _Z Cars_ on the tiny television set. Paul and Marisol leaned against the sofa under a blanket, John and Cynthia next to them with the baby cooing between them.

"Who's the bird?" Paul asked a few minutes into the show.

"Judi Dench," Cynthia said. "She was in _An Age of King_ s a few years back."

"She's a cracker," John said. "I mean that in a good way."

It took all of Marisol's concentration to understand the northern accents and colloquial slang. She finally gave up and closed her eyes, her head on Paul's shoulder. He rubbed her neck and shoulders as he watched the television and puffed one cigarette after another.

By the time the show was over, John was softly snoring.

Paul stretched and sat up. "We're all a bit knackered from the past week," he said softly. "I'll ring Neil."

Marisol thanked Cynthia for dinner and they promised to get together again soon. They left John and Julian dozing in front of the flickering television and headed out into the cold damp night.

 


	9. Baby's in Black

It was a quiet drive home, with Paul occasionally leaning over the front seat to adjust the radio or speak to Neil. There were soft kisses and whispers in the dark. The rhythm of the windshield wipers and patter of the rain on the roof lulled Marisol into drowsy contentment.

Lily and Ramsay each barked once as she fumbled in her purse for the house key. When she had the door open, the dogs twirled in circles, claws clicking on the parquet floor, back ends wiggling. Marisol shushed them and turned and smiled at Paul. "Do you want to come in?"

"You better believe it. It's proper Baltic out here." He helped her out of her coat and placed it across the banister along with his.

"What about Neil?"

"He'll go to his grandma's, probably get some sleep."

In the sitting room Paul went straight to the hifi and sorted through her grandmother's small collection of music. He chose a Billie Holliday album and started it playing with the volume low. Marisol turned up the electric fireplace and joined him on the sofa, slipping off her pumps and curling her feet underneath her. "Lie down!" she commanded the dogs.

"As you wish," Paul responded with a laugh, "but I thought we would talk a bit first."

"Not you," Marisol gave him a playful shove, laughing along with him. "Them." She pointed at the dogs.

Lily walked in circles three or four times in front of her before dropping to the floor and resting her chin on her front paws. Ramsay ignored her, his intelligent brown eyes fixed on Paul, tail gently wagging.

"I like this aggressive side of you," Paul teased, shoving her back. They grappled playfully for a minute, giggling, until Paul dipped his head and nibbled at a spot just behind her ear, making her skin tingle all over. She let out a gasp and he lifted his head, watching her as if gauging her reaction.

"That tickled," she said, panting a little. She averted her eyes under his heated gaze, wondering what he expected from her tonight, here, in her grandmother's sitting room, with the dogs watching. In her lap Paul's hand clasped hers, his thumb making lazy circles across her knuckles.

"So..." She leaned back against the cushions, trying to collect her thoughts while her pulse pounded in her ears. "So when you were playing guitar, I noticed you're a lefty."

"I am." He leaned back beside her, their eyes locked and their heads almost touching.

"So is my brother. I always heard left-handed people are more creative. And good multi-taskers."

He nodded. "It's funny, because some people think it's strange that I don't mind a lot of noise going on when I'm writing. I think the chaos keeps the normal part of my brain busy so the creative side can sneak out."

She laughed. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. I can't think unless it's quiet."

"That's just it, you see. The music doesn't come from the thinking part of you. It comes from the soul."

She smiled to herself. That sounded like something her grandfather would have said. "I see."

He started to prop a booted foot on the coffee table, then noticed the book he'd given her and stretched forward to pick it up. "Did you like the quote?"

"I love it." 

He flipped to the title page, reading aloud. "For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return." He closed the book. "It could be about any passion, really. Once you've found it you forever want to experience it again. Could be music, art, travel. But it's the imagery of looking up into the sky that makes it striking."

Ramsay placed his head on Paul's knee and gazed at him imploringly. Paul started to pet him, but Marisol laughed and shoved the dog away. "Go away you spoiled rotten beast. I told you to lie down."

"He looks cold."

Shivering, Marisol took a crocheted afghan from the back of the sofa and spread it across their laps. "It's a three dog night, and we only have two, what to do?"

"A three dog night?"

“It’s a cowboy saying, or maybe Eskimo, who knows, but on a three dog night it’s so cold you have to sleep with three dogs to keep from freezing to death.”

Paul draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Good thing we have each other, eh?"

He scooped his other arm underneath her knees and swung her easily onto his lap. His lips grazed hers, the briefest touch, but it was electrifying. He pulled back and looked in her eyes, then lowered his gaze and stared at her mouth, his lips slightly parted. And then there was no more talking about cowboys or Eskimos, because they were too busy K-I-S-S-I-N-Geezus was he ever a good kisser. His mouth moved over hers, molding to her lips. His hands came up, cradling her head. Slowly, carefully, he made a song of their lips pressed together.

He flipped her onto her back and before she knew it he was stretched out beside her, one leg parting her knees. Her lips on his, her fingers threaded in his hair, her breasts pressed against his chest, her thighs against his thighs—she felt like she couldn’t get close enough to him. Here on her grandmother’s sofa, with music softly playing in the background and wind rattling the windowpanes and two dogs dozing at their feet, all she wanted was him.

Their kisses deepened and his hand trailed up her thigh, tugging her skirt up over her bottom, his palm sliding against the silk and lace of her underwear. His tongue was on her neck and she felt herself unreeling. He moved his hand over the curve of her hip to her thigh and lower, to the back of her knee, and he pulled her leg up over his hip, fitting her perfectly to him. She could feel him, lengthening and pressing between her legs, leaving no doubt about how much he wanted her.

Everything he did to her melted her from the inside out, but even as lust clouded her mind, she knew it was too soon to be naked with him. “He loves all the ladies,” Cynthia had said, only hours ago. Marisol knew she had to gather her wits about her and make him stop doing these things to her that felt so heavenly. His fingers were at the buttons of her blouse. _Oh my god._

"Oh my god," she moaned, startled that she said it aloud instead of in her head.

He pulled back, locking eyes with her. “Are you okay?” he asked, brushing her hair away from her cheek.

She closed her eyes. “Yes.” She pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t start telling him all the ways he made her feel.

“You sure?”

She nodded.

“You don’t look okay.”

Her fist was bunched in his shirt, her thoughts whirling. “We can’t do this here,” she whispered, opening her eyes. “My grandmother is right upstairs."

“Where can we be alone?” he said into her lips. He caught her lower lip with his teeth and bit gently. Trailing kisses along her jaw, his hand slipped inside her blouse and he cupped her breast in his palm.

"Oh god..." Marisol turned her head to the side. She soon realized that was a mistake when he traced a line between her lips and her ear with the tip of his tongue. She shivered and bit back a groan.

He raised his head from her neck. “Your room?”

And then, before she could come up with a response, the floorboards creaked loudly directly above their heads, followed by footsteps. They froze, listening, waiting for what was going to happen next. Both dogs raised their heads.

A few seconds later Lily sighed and closed her eyes, but Ramsay scrabbled to his feet and whimpered, ears and head tilted toward the sound of his mistress. “Go on then,” Marisol hissed at the dog. Ramsay scampered away and they listened to him clicking through the foyer and up the stairs. There was the distant sound of water running followed by more footsteps and creaking and finally silence.

Paul let out his breath and smiled at her, looking unbearably cute. "She's very good, your grandmother. She has that sixth sense good grandmothers have when their granddaughters are about to be ravished."

"Is this what being ravished feels like?" Marisol whispered, when she'd recovered her breath enough to speak.

He held himself up on his elbows and searched her eyes, an earnest look on his face. "I mean to ravish you, Mari. I want nothing more than to ravish every curve and delicious morsel of your spectacular body until sunrise. But not here. It will be someplace where you can scream my name over and over without worrying who will hear."

Her eyes widened, and she felt like the breath was knocked out of her. He really was too much sometimes. The tragedy was, he was probably right. As attracted as she was to him, she had little doubt that given half a chance he could make her see God and scream for mercy.

“Does that scare you?” he asked.

“A little. I mean, we only just met a few weeks ago, and I…”

“…and you’re only here on holiday,” he finished for her. He bent his head to press a soft kiss against her neck before looking back into her eyes. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, Mari. All I know is I enjoy being with you enormously and I want more of you.”

 _More of her._ Did she have more to give him, this soon after losing the love of her life? Could she do this, have a fling with this gorgeous man, without getting attached to him just as it was time to leave England? She closed her eyes as he leaned in to kiss her again, a tender kiss that made her tremble.

His warm fingers brushed against her breasts and she realized he was buttoning her blouse. Then his hands grew still. “What is this necklace you always wear?”

Her eyelids flew open.

He tugged on the chain until the round diamond solitaire ring tumbled free of her lacy bra and into his palm. “What is this?” he asked again.

She struggled to prop herself up on her elbows. “Um…it’s an engagement ring.”

There was a long pause as he examined the ring, then lifted his eyes and searched her face. "Is it yours?" he asked, incredulous.

"Well, yes, but...it isn't what it seems."

He made a sound between a laugh and a scoff. “Cor, Mari. You are full of surprises, aren’t you.” He swung his legs onto the floor and sat on the edge of the sofa, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Cor. I need a ciggy.”

He strode from the room into the kitchen and seconds later Marisol heard the French door open and close behind him.

It felt like all the warmth in the room had left with him and she shivered in the sudden chill. She sat up and finished buttoning her blouse. She had to tell him about Dan. It was time to tell him that she was a broken mess and he probably shouldn’t waste any more time with her, and the whole idea of ravishing her could fly right out the window. She held her face in her hands a minute, gathering strength, and then slipped on her shoes and threw the afghan around her shoulders.

She found him on the patio under the eaves of the house, barely out of the rain, exhaling a swirl of grey into the cold mist. He didn’t look at her as she approached. She leaned against the bricks beside him, watching him smoke. “Are you upset with me?”

He wordlessly examined the glowing orange tip of his cigarette and flicked the ash off to the side. He took another drag, then dropped the butt and ground it out with his boot. “Probably not as wound up as the bloke who gave you that ring should be.”

“I’m not engaged, Paul. It’s not what you think.” She realized she was holding onto the necklace and let her hand fall away.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared out at the rain. “Are you still in love with him?”

She pulled the afghan tighter around her. “It doesn’t matter, because he’s gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

Her teeth were starting to chatter. “Can we go back inside?”

Without a word he pushed past her and let himself back in the house. He strode briskly through the sitting room and into the foyer where he reached for his coat.

She followed him in silence, tears filling her eyes. She'd ruined it already. She was losing someone who might've made her forget Dan, because she couldn't let go of what she'd already lost.

He looped his scarf around his neck, glanced down at her and froze.

"Hey, What's all this?" He leaned toward her, watching a tear roll down her cheek with a stunned expression. "Mari?"

She dropped onto the steps, gathered the afghan tighter around her shoulders and rubbed the tears away. “I don’t want to be this emotional in front of you.”

He stood looking down at her, a baffled expression on his face. “Tell me what’s going on. I’m not going to judge you.”

She hugged her knees and took a deep breath to steady her voice. “I was engaged. And he was killed. And sometimes I feel like I'll never stop crying.”

He joined her on the steps. She felt his hand on her shoulder, an arm around her. “God, Mari, I’m so sorry," he said softly. He searched her face, his expression etched with concern. “Tell me what happened.”

“He rode away from my house on his motorcycle and there was rain and fog coming over the mountains…” Her voice hitched. “He didn’t make it home.” Her voice broke and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Paul hugged her, his head dipping to catch the words. “I’m so sorry, baby.” He pulled her head onto his shoulder and held her, stroking her hair, whispering comforting, soothing words. “How long ago?” he asked after a moment.

She wiped at her nose. “Almost six months ago.”

“Is that why you left California instead of starting school?”

She nodded into his shoulder.

“Why haven’t you told me?”

“I didn't want you to pity me…or think I’m some kind of a wreck…”

He sighed. “Of course not, love. I know how much it hurts to lose someone.”

She lifted her head and looked at him through the tears. “I know you do.” She shuddered as she tried to control the tears. "What happened to your mom?”

“Breast cancer. My brother and I never knew how sick she was. One day she cleaned the house until it sparkled, laid out our school clothes for the next day, went in hospital and never came home.”

“It must have broken her heart to know she wouldn’t see you grow up.”

Paul went still. “I never thought of it that way. I thought of it from everyone else’s viewpoint, but I never thought about how she must have felt.” He shook his head. “She was a nurse. She would’ve known she wasn’t coming back home.” He blinked away from her, staring at the floor.

Through her tears, Marisol saw his brow furrowed with the memory. She pictured a fourteen year old worried and motherless Paul and her heart ached for him. She took another swipe at her tears and cupped his warm face in her hands. “Your Mom would be so proud of you right now. You're so smart, and talented, and funny. You're the best listener in the world, and you always know just what to say to put people at ease."

He managed a rueful grin. "You've just described my dad to a tee."

"Even more reason for her to be proud.”

“Your hands are bloody ice cubes.” Paul took her hands from his face and tucked them inside his coat. With his arms around her, he rocked her gently as they breathed into each other’s hair.

After a few moments he said, “I knew there was a sadness about you the first day I met you. We're like wounded animals, recognizing the brokenness in each other."

She nodded, squeezing her eyes closed and willing the tears to stop. "We're getting better though."

“Mari.”

She opened her eyes at the gravity in his voice. "Yes?"

“Why are you still wearing your ring?"

“I don't know. I've been struggling with it. I guess it felt like taking it off would mean I stopped loving him when he died, and I didn't.”

Paul reached a hand underneath the afghan and rubbed circles between her shoulder blades. “What was he like, this fella who had your heart?”

Marisol hesitated. How could she begin to list the reasons she’d fallen for the man she’d been engaged to? “He was smart and kind…and he loved me a whole lot.”

“He won’t be the last, you know.”

“Right,” she whispered.

"You will learn to love again with your new, stronger heart, I'm certain of it.”

“You’re probably right." She dragged an arm across her nose and sniffed.

He reached into his coat pocket and held out a white handkerchief with the letter “P” embroidered in one corner. Mari looked at it and shook her head. “I don’t want to get it all snotty.”

“It’s okay. I have more. I can’t really wear them in my breast pocket. The fans grab at me and try to nick them.”

Looking up at him, she attempted a smile. “I may grab at you, but I promise I won’t nick your handkerchief.” She wiped at her eyes and nose and bunched the fabric in one hand. “I’ll wash it for you.”

"You can grab me any time it takes your fancy." He kissed the top of her head. “You’re going to be okay.”

She nuzzled her face against his neck and kissed his ear, feeling him shiver as if it tickled. “Thank you for the handkerchief.”

He kneaded her back. “Thank you for wearing this silky blouse.”

Taking a shuddering breath, she said, “Thank you for washing your hair with minty shampoo. It’s my favorite.”

“Thank you for popping round to John's with me. You’re _my_ favorite.”

She hugged him harder. “Thank you for listening to my story.”

“Thank you for trusting me with it.”

He stood and pulled her to her feet, smiling down at her. “All right?”

When she nodded, he kissed her softly. “Mmm. You taste salty.”

“You must find me so attractive right now.”

“I do actually. A beautiful girl crying. You know what they say…” There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “…tears are the best lube.”

A laugh burst out of her. “You did not just say that.”

Paul kissed her forehead. "I knew I could make you laugh. Alas, I’m not taking advantage of the beautiful crying girl. See, my coat is on, I’m heading out.”

He looked out the front door and exhaled loudly. "Still pissing down the rain."

Marisol shrugged off the afghan, folding it absently. "What are you going to do? Are you walking to Mrs. A's house?"

"Yeah, I don't want to ring the line and wake her."

"It's freezing outside and raining. You should stay here tonight."

He was already removing his coat. "I thought you'd never ask."

Marisol wrote a note for her grandma telling her Paul was in the guest room and slid it under her door. Then she showed him his room and bathroom and gave him a new toothbrush and set of fresh towels.

“Where’s your room?” he asked.

“Just across the hall.”

He stepped across the hallway and opened the door, flicking on the light and looking around at her bed, her dresser, her chest of drawers with the record player on top. “Got any Beatles records in here?”

“I listen to your album downstairs on the hifi. The sound is better.”

He nodded. “Good. I just wanted to picture where you sleep.”

Before she could speak again, he kissed her. How long would she miss Dan, she wondered. How long would it hurt this way? Paul's mouth was on hers, his hands cradling her head. She let her mind go blank, grateful for the arms that held her, the lips on hers. Blank it all out, she begged him silently. Rewrite this sad song. She kissed him back, feeling vague surprise that through all the pain, she could want this man so much.

He pulled away with a groan. "I need a whole helluva lot more of those sweet lips. Goodnight, Mari, sweet dreams, love.”

Marisol closed the door of her bedroom quietly and stood at the dresser, looking at herself in the large mirror. Her makeup was streaked with tears and her lips were swollen from Paul’s kisses. She lifted the gold chain over her head and unclasped it and let the beautiful solitaire fall into her hand. She slid it on her ring finger and watched the facets catch the light for a moment, then slipped it off and placed it carefully in the small jewelry case on top of the dresser. However this ended up, thanks to this beautiful, brilliant British boy, she knew that coming to England had been the right decision.

She lay awake in the dark for a very long time thinking of Paul asleep just across the hall.

****************

Marisol awoke to the sound of the milk truck making its delivery, the bottles clanking together in the back as the driver pulled away. The rain had stopped and the morning sun beamed through the lace curtains. Someone was frying bacon. And Paul was here.

With that thought she catapulted out of bed. She dressed, washed her face, brushed her teeth and went downstairs to the kitchen.

“The space your loved ones leave behind is bigger than you could ever imagine,” Marisol heard her grandmother say as she pushed open the kitchen door.  
  
"Life is all about learning to let go," Paul answered. He turned and smiled angelically up at Marisol. "There you are. Sleeping Beauty has awakened, at last."

"Hello Duckie," her grandmother said, looking up. "Paul and I are getting acquainted. Have a seat, I'll cook you an egg. Paul, shall I grill more bacon?"

"Yes, please, this is fab."

Marisol stared at the plate in front of Paul, covered with eggs, toast, fried potatoes and what already looked like a rasher of bacon. Looking at it made her stomach churn.

"No eggs Grandma, I'll just get myself some cereal."

She dropped into a chair across from Paul with a bowl and a box of cereal.

"Do you have corn flakes in the States?" Paul asked.

"Is that a serious question? We invented corn flakes."

"You may have, but I bet you didn't think to cover them in chocolate."

"You have a point there."

"Did you sleep well?" Grandma asked.

"I can't believe I slept this late."

"I can't believe how lazy you are," Paul said, smiling at her. "That's why you Americans will never amount to much. All that lolling about in bed all morning."

"I thought you were leaving," Marisol said, smiling back.

They made small talk about the weather--how much rain they'd been getting and how bitterly cold it was last winter when the English Channel froze. Grandma mentioned that Southwest England had been completely cut off by the snow and ice. Paul said at one point he thought there was a sporting chance that Wales would never be seen again. They talked about the upcoming arts festival in Rye and a Hayley Mills film being shot nearby in Brighton.

Marisol watched her grandmother hovering over Paul the way she used to do with Marisol's older brother Marcus. How long had he been up, she wondered, that he'd already managed to work his magic on her grandmother? Not that it would take him very long. He was a master with people.

After breakfast Paul made a phone call to Mrs. Aspinall’s house, and Marisol walked down the drive and sat on the stone wall with him to wait for Neil.

The late morning sun was drying the puddles on the drive and warming their faces. Her favorite English songbird was warbling its flutelike song. She had no idea what bird it was, but it sounded like it was singing 'Drink your te-te-te-te-te" and she always associated it with Southern England.

She reached for Paul's hand. "My grandma likes you a lot, I can tell. She liked the way you ate her eggs and bacon."

"I like her a lot. I like the way she makes eggs and bacon." He squeezed Marisol's hand. "And I like the way she made an English daughter who made an Anglo-American granddaughter."

Marisol rested her cheek against his shoulder. "It was nice waking up with you here."

Paul nodded. "It's beautiful down here in the country. Good place to raise kids, don't you think? Close to the shore, but not so far from the Smoke. All this fresh air gets my creativity flowing." He scratched his jaw and tilted his head towards her. "I've already written a poem this morning, while you were lolling around in bed."

Marisol straightened, smiling at him. "You have? Let's hear it."

Paul cleared his throat and gazed up at the wispy clouds scuttling to the sea as he gathered his thoughts.

"There once was a novelist's granddaughter,  
with eyes the blue of seawater.  
I'm keen to remove  
all her clothing to prove  
That naked she looks even hotter."

Marisol started to jab him in the ribs with an elbow, but he looked so pleased with himself she could do nothing but laugh. "You wrote a dirty limerick for me?"

He nodded, his brows knit together in thought. "Don't know why my limericks are always dirty."

"Maybe you need more fresh air." She sighed. "I wish you could stay longer." She yearned to spend the afternoon with him. He made her feel like every day was a new adventure. He made her _feel._ "I'm starting to like having you around."

Paul studied her thoughtfully. "I've developed a bit of a wild crush on you, you know. I lie in bed imagining how you would feel in my arms, naked and begging me not to stop."

She bit back a groan. "How am I supposed to respond to that?"

"By saying you'll come to one of my shows.” He kissed her again, on the lips this time. “You could stay with me after the show at some swanky hotel, if you fancy. Pick up a free bar of soap."

Marisol hesitated. “I’d love to come to one of your shows, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to…”

“I know, Marisol, but even if I’m only kissing you, I’d love to be alone with you. Would you like that?”

She whispered a barely audible _Yes._ A single syllable full of anticipation and hope and wonder that this man made her feel all the things she thought she’d never feel again.

  
After waving goodbye to Neil and Paul, Marisol wandered into the kitchen to help her grandmother with the dishes.

“That boy lost his mother,” was the first thing her grandmother said.

“I know, Grandma. It makes you want to mother him. He's awfully motherable."

"Now, now, duck, going on about a young man is no excuse to massacre the English language."

“How did you get on that subject anyway?” Marisol asked.

“He was so delighted at having breakfast made for him, and I asked him how often he got to enjoy his mum's cooking." She tutted. "You should have told me about his mother, duckie.”

“I haven’t really known very long.”

Grandma handed her a clean plate to dry. “We must have him for dinner soon. He’s terribly thin.”

Marisol smiled. “I think he would like that.” _And so would I,_ she added silently as she daydreamed about the night with Paul, already wishing for more of him.

 


	10. Twist and Shout

Marisol let herself into Angela's London flat and slumped against the wall. “Good lord. I almost opened the car door and fell out reaching for the stick shift on the wrong side again," she said to the empty front room.

Angela poked her head out of the bathroom, mascara wand in hand. "Oh it's you. I thought it was James Dean. He never knocks either."

"Well he wouldn't, since he's a ghost."

“Not in my dreams, he isn’t.”

Marisol squeezed into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. Paul had invited her to his gig tonight, a three hour drive from London. She had asked to bring Angela, and Paul said their names would be at the box office.

"Ohhhh. You look pretty,” Marisol said.

Angela's thick brown hair was loose and lightly curled. She wore a stylish short straight dress in a shade of cornflower blue that matched her eyes.

“Say, do you think the Beatles will see us? I hear Paul McCartney has loads of eye sex with the girls in the front rows. He’s an enormous flirt, you know.”

Marisol looked at the ceiling. “You don't say."

Recapping the mascara, Angela said, “Right-o, I know this one girl whose brother's ex-girlfriend got backstage once and--"

"Woah. Hold that thought." Marisol held up a hand. “That story might have the sort of happy ending I'd rather not hear."

Angela rooted through her makeup bag and selected a tube of coral lipstick. "I didn't even know you fancied the Beatles."

"My favorite British group." Marisol stood and pushed past Angela. "I'm going to put the kettle on."

"I'll be ready in two shakes."

Marisol filled the kettle and lit the burner on the stove. She perched on the edge of a green vinyl and chrome kitchen stool and checked her watch. She hadn't told anyone besides her grandmother and Margo that she was seeing Paul. Even though she and Angela had met for lunch or shopping once a week for the last month, something always stopped her from confiding in her friend. Being with Paul was so new and tenuous, she didn't want to jinx it, or to blow the relationship all out of proportion in her head.

She chewed a nail, then caught herself and drummed her fingers on the formica counter. The thought of seeing Paul and the rest of the band in concert made her giddy. The thought of seeing Paul after the concert in his hotel room made her heart race. It would be their first night alone.

They'd talked and giggled on the phone every night this week. Late into the night he'd entertained her with silly impressions and road stories. One night he'd put the phone down and played and sang a song to her. It was melodic and catchy with lyrics about looking for the sun that he said he'd written at 16 and never quite finished.

Soon it seemed she was drifting off to sleep most nights with a smile on her lips remembering something Paul had said, instead of with tears in her eyes remembering Dan. She was beginning to think it was possible to fall in love again.

Angela came around the corner, zipped her makeup bag and pushed it into the overstuffed handbag on the counter. She gave Marisol an appraising glance, eyeing the pencil slim light grey skirt and pink fuzzy angora sweater that hugged her curves. "John Lennon is going to eat you up with a spoon!"

"Ha! What is that supposed to mean?"

"He fancies blondes, you know.”

"John Lennon is so short sighted he can't see past the end of the stage. Blonde, brunette, it's all the same to him once you're more than five feet away."

“And how do you know that, Chica?”

Marisol's thumbnail went to her mouth before she caught herself again and dropped her hands to her lap. "Listen, there's something I need to tell you, about the show.”

Angela plopped onto a stool beside her. "Cor. We have good seats, don't we?" She gripped Marisol's arm. "We're going to have so much eye sex with Paul McCartney and maybe even Ringo."

Marisol choked back a laugh. "That is entirely within the realm of possibility."

"I'm chuffed to bits! How much do I owe you for the tickets?"

“That’s the thing. We don’t actually have tickets. We’re going to be backstage.”

“Right, Dolly. Pull the other one.”

The kettle began to steam and Angela rose to pour the tea into two porcelain cups. The room was filled with the heady aroma of Earl Grey. Angela slid one cup to Marisol. "So how did you get these tickets again? People queue for days to get them.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’ve been seeing Paul, you see—”

Angela's brow wrinkled. "Paul?"

"Paul McCartney. You know, Paul Eye Sex McCartney?"

Angela's laugh was a guffaw. “Right! And I’m shagging Ringo.”

“Really though. I grew up playing Cowboys and Indians with their road manager.”

Marisol was adding sugar to her tea when she said this and was startled when Angela slammed her palms down on the table. “You what?”

Hot tea sloshed over her hand and Marisol flinched. “Geez. Calm down. I know, though. Small world, right?”

Angela loomed over her. “You’re shagging Paul McCharming and you never even told me?”

“No! God. Sit down. No one is shagging anyone.” She smiled a little. “Not yet, anyway.”

Angela sat back down, disbelief etched across her face. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Um…I don’t think so…” she began, and Angela leaned forward, her eyebrows raised with interest.

“I know, Ange, he’s in a rock band. But I really do like him. And I think he likes me.” She held her cup with both hands and brought it to her lips.

"You know he's engaged to that actress, right?"

Marisol almost choked on the mouthful of tea. Her hand shook as she set the cup on the counter. When she stopped coughing, she said, "Paul is not engaged, for heaven's sake. In fact, he told me last week it was time for me to stop wearing my engagement ring on a chain, and he's right." She tugged down the collar of her sweater to show her bare neck. "No more necklace."

"I see that." Angela frowned. "Hang on a tick."

Marisol felt a knot form in the pit of her stomach as her friend pushed aside the curtain around the sink and began rummaging in the trash bin.

"What are you doing, Ange? We should be going."

Angela fished out a ragged copy of the _Daily Telegraph_ and thumbed through it. When she found what she was looking for, she spread the pages open on the counter.

The date at the top of the page was two days ago. There was a photo of Paul, her beautiful, attentive Paul, holding open the door of a limousine. A young girl with long lush hair and a pretty, wholesome face stood slightly behind him.

_“Paul McCartney of the pop sensation the Beatles and actress Jane Asher find time to take in a premiere in London Sunday night.”_

The words swam before her eyes. She pictured Paul cuddling in the backseat with this other girl while Alf drove them through London. Her heart dropped.

_Great. No doubt Neil knew all about Paul and this other girl. Alf knew, hell, even Angela knew. Everyone knew but her._

She rubbed her forehead, trying to process this new information. “I mean, we haven’t been seeing each other that long, I’m sure he sees lots of people.”

Angela spun a teaspoon on the counter, not meeting her eyes. ”I've seen photos of them together before. One of the dailies said they're engaged."

“That's garbage.” Marisol said. Her hands went to her hair, smoothing it distractedly. She’d taken such care with her hair today, styling it in a messy updo with full bangs. She tucked a loose strand behind her ear with a shaking hand, trying to keep the disappointment from showing on her face.

She should have expected Paul saw girls when he was in London. He had a life here before they met. And he would have a life here after she was gone. But she was here now, and he made her laugh. He made her stop feeling sorry for herself. He made her happy.

“The thing is, I’m not ready for another relationship right now, and if I was, it wouldn’t be with someone in a band who lives in England, right?” she said brightly. She stood and picked up the newspaper and dropped it back in the trash bin. ”But he’s been good for me. Honestly, it’s been…cathartic, I guess, having him pay me so much attention.”

Angela gave her a long look. “Mar, he's a great looking guy and he's a Beatle. You do realize girls are throwing themselves at him, and he can have his pick. Some girls were talking about him at the hair salon a few weeks ago. Apparently he’s quite the Casanova, engagement or not.”

Marisol nearly winced at hearing Paul referred to as a womanizer for the second time in a week. She lowered her eyes and struggled not to react. “Oh well. You know how rumors are.” She felt Angela staring at her and glanced up. “What? I’m not swooning over him or anything. He’s a lot of fun, that’s all.”

“Right. Just making sure you’re not caught under his spell. I know what you've been through this year. I hope you’re shagging him all over Britain. But please tell me you’re not thinking of falling in love with him."

Marisol smoothed her skirt and squared her shoulders. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

***********

Marisol never failed to get lost when venturing out in the English countryside in her grandmother's Mini Cooper and today was no exception. They had to park blocks away from the theatre, and when they arrived there were hundreds of girls standing around outside, buzzing with excitement and huddled together in the chilly air as the sun dipped below the horizon. Leaves skittered around their feet as they joined a long queue in front of the box office.

"This is crazy," Angela said. "Do you suppose all these people will get in?"

”I dunno, but they seem to be getting quite wound up about it.” In front of them a girl held up a picture of Paul. She kissed it and her friends screamed. A police siren sounded nearby with its hi-lo alternating air horn. More screams erupted as a door at the far left of the building opened. An enormous man wearing an identification tag on a cord around his neck took a look around and barged into the crowd. Local security, Marisol guessed. She checked her watch before shoving her cold hands inside her pastel pink Lilli Ann cape.

“Miss Hemingway?” Marisol looked up. And up. The security man had stopped in front of her. He looked like a building. He had to be at least six feet four.

Angela elbowed her in the ribs. “Yes. That’s us. Her,” she said, hooking a thumb at Marisol.

The man nodded. “Mal Evans. Come with me.”

Marisol frowned. The man had taken one look at the mob of girls and walked straight up to her. “Wait…how did you know who I am?”

Mal peered down at her. “I’ve known the boys a long time, lass.”

Marisol and Angela exchanged glances.

“This way.” The crowd parted for the towering man as he lumbered across the lot to the left side of the building.

“What does that mean?” Marisol whispered, taking Angela’s hand in hers. “Are we in a _Twilight Zone_ episode?”

“Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo.” Angela sang under her breath.

“Beyond this door is another dimension, not only of sight and sound but of mind.”

Mal glanced back at the sound of their laughter. “Come ‘ead. Stay close.” They had to practically sprint to keep up with his long strides.

They rounded the side of the building, where four police cars were angle parked alongside the beige van that Neil had driven to her grandmother’s house not quite a month ago. The windows and sides of the van were now covered in new red and pink lipstick hearts and messages:

‘ _Paul, marry me!’ ‘I love you Ringo!’ ‘Mary loves George for always’ ‘I shagged a Beatle — LIAR! YOU DID NOT! ‘ ‘Cheltenham loves the Beatles!_

At the bottom of a narrow flight of stairs a police officer faced off with five or six teenagers clutching show programs. Desperation etched their faces as the officer sternly shook his head. A second officer stood at the top of the stairs, guarding a metal security door.

Farther along the side of the building a dozen or more girls gathered beneath a row of high windows, waving, squealing and laughing.

As they neared the stairway, the officer nodded at Mal and held his arms in front of the teenagers, pushing them out of the way to clear the steps.

“He’s with the Beatles!” a girl wailed, and the group became even more animated. They thrust their arms out on either side of the policeman and one ducked between his legs. Their screams drew the attention of the girls under the windows, who stampeded toward the stairs. Marisol felt someone tugging at her cape and wrenched away, gripping Angela’s hand.

Ahead of them Mal vaulted up the steps two at a time and barked at the officer on the landing, who threw open the door and reached for them. Marisol was practically lifted off her feet and out of her shoes as she and Angela were forcibly dragged up the remaining steps and shoved into a dark, narrow hallway.

Mal slammed the door against the screams and leaned against it, panting. “Ay, ay, settin’ up to be a wild one.”

Marisol rubbed her arms and wiggled a bruised foot back into her high heeled pump. “Owww! Son of a…” She whirled on Mal. “For heaven’s sake, wasn't that a tad overly dramatic?”

“They will tear you apart, lass. There’s nothin’ more determined than a Beatles fan. Almost had me ruddy shoulder dislocated last week keepin’ three of ‘em from leapin' under a bus.”

Angela straightened her black and white houndstooth jacket and smoothed her hair back in place. “You’re very brave,” she said, deadpan.

Mal straightened his jacket. “Come ‘ead then.” He ushered them down the narrow hallway with doors on either side. Music pounded from the theatre. Had they missed the start of the show? The singer’s voice was not one she recognized. She heard a chorus of "We want the Beatles!" from the crowd followed by screams.

Another security guard stood outside a door at the end of the hall. A tour poster featuring a large picture of the Beatles and smaller photos of several other groups was taped to the door. Marisol squeezed Angela’s hand, heart thumping. Mal nodded at the guard and the door was opened.

It looked as though all the performers including the Beatles and a score of journalists and photographers were crammed into the long thin room. A few performers played cards on upturned suitcases. Some tuned their guitars. Others stood in front of a table in the center of the room laden with sandwiches, bags of crisps, bottles of Pepsi-Cola and a selection of whiskies.

Marisol saw George first, sitting in a wooden chair near the door, replacing a string on his guitar. Behind him Neil rummaged in an open suitcase on a counter under a wall of mirrors. A phone was ringing but no one seemed to notice. Stacks of autograph books, Parlophone promotion cards, unopened mail and Beat magazines were stacked haphazardly on every available counter surface.

High windows lined the far side of the room. A slender man in a dark suit balanced precariously on a wooden folding chair with his head out a window. He threw something outside and the screams intensified. When he pulled his head back inside the room Marisol saw it was Ringo. He cranked the window closed and jumped off the chair, laughing. “Aye, the birds are flockin’, fellas."

She followed his gaze and there was Paul, on a brown leather sofa in the corner, hunched over an acoustic guitar. Only inches away sat John, also strumming a guitar and talking into Paul’s face, oblivious to the melee around them. Paul stopped plucking and grabbed a pencil from behind his ear and scribbled something in a notebook.

Then Ringo stopped in front of Marisol, blocking her view. "Give us a ko, glove," was what it sounded like he said.

"Sorry?"

"I said give us a ko, glove," Ringo repeated.

Angela yanked Marisol to one side and she realized she'd been standing in front of a Coca-Cola machine.

"Oh! A Coke, love! Sorry!"

Wide-eyed, Angela watched as Ringo selected a drink, gave them a nod and loped away to a chair next to George. She made a funny high-pitched purring noise. “Gor blimey, he’s dishy, that one," she whispered.

"I wish the English would learn to speak English.” Marisol said.

"Foony, very foony," said Angela.

John noticed them first and said something to Paul, who looked up and scanned the room. When he saw Marisol his face split in a wide grin. He pulled the guitar strap over his head and propped the instrument against the sofa. In one fluid motion he rose and crossed the room, never taking his eyes off her. He framed her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers before saying a word. “Hello, love. I thought you’d never get here,” he said, and kissed her again.

A shiver raced through her. She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. In his narrow-lapeled, tight-trousered dark suit with the bright white shirt and skinny dark knitted tie, he took her breath away. His Cuban heeled boots added another inch or more to his height. Her heart hammered. She was speechless, mesmerized.

He stepped back and offered his hand to Angela with one of those amazing Paul McCartney smiles. When he smiled like that it was like having a torch lighting up all the dark corners and Marisol couldn’t imagine why everyone on earth was not in love with him. “I’m Paul,” he said. Thanks for bringing my girl.”

Marisol heard Angela croak out her name, barely above a whisper.

Paul rubbed his hands together. ”So…take off your coats and stay awhile." He helped Marisol out of her cape, grabbed Angela's jacket and tossed them both on an empty wooden chair.

His gaze swept over her. “Girls in fuzzy sweaters. God, I love this weather.” He pulled her to his chest and whispered into her hair. “I've missed you." His hands roamed over her back and Marisol felt the tension drain from her neck and shoulders. A bomb could drop on this theatre right now and she wouldn't notice as long as he held her this way. He smelled of cigarettes and shampoo and something else intoxicating and male. She let herself melt against him. "I've missed you too," she whispered.

Too soon he pulled away, but he kept an arm around her waist, holding her so close their hips touched. Marisol drew in a get-it-together breath and willed her heart rate to return to normal before she made a fool of herself in front of Angela and a dozen random musicians and journalists. She glanced up at Angela, who was wearing a look of interested amazement.

“Any trouble getting in?” Paul asked.

“No…we’d just arrived when your…ah…bodyguard found us.”

His brow furrowed. “Big Mal? Aye, isn’t he great? We’ve only just hired him since Neil was driven to a frazzle looking after his on his own. I told him to bring me Brigitte Bardot with an American accent and here you are, aren't you?” He squeezed her waist and her arm went automatically around him, resting on his lean hips.

Neil edged over and introduced himself to Angela. He nodded at Marisol. “I was worried about you two arriving so late. Mal says it's getting dodgy outside."

“We would have been here sooner but Mari was driving and…” Angela brought a hand to her mouth and stage-whispered to Neil: “ _Roundabouts_.”

Neil frowned. “Sorry?”

“Americans are great at many things, but the roundabout is not one of them,” Angela explained. "I thought we were going to be in that last one for three days."

"Shut up. I did one of them right."

"Purely by accident."

Marisol rolled her eyes. “Okay. Driving on the wrong side of the road in a roundabout is what you guys refer to as your A-levels, right?” she said. “It must be an intelligence test that decides who gets to be an air traffic controller. And don't even get me started on your right turn rules.”

Paul laughed. “You seem a bit high strung, love. I can fix that.” He elbowed his way through the crowd at the table, reaching for a pair of empty glass tumblers.

“Maybe you need a few driving lessons before any more flying lessons," Neil suggested.

“Oh no, she’s doing great,” Angela said, “I just remind her now and then that in Britain one should never drive on the sidewalk, even when out of a roundabout.”

Marisol shoved her with a laugh. "How did you hear about my flying lessons?" she asked Neil.

"You seem to be Macca's second favorite topic of conversation lately. The Beatles, then you."

“You must have had some pretty boring drives,” Marisol mused.

Neil shrugged. “I’m good at drifting off in my own head and nodding at appropriate times.”

Paul returned with two glasses filled with a caramel colored beverage. “Here you are, love. This will make you forget all about your A-levels.”

Marisol took a small sip and choked back a cough. It tasted like some sort of whiskey mixed with warm cola. Angela took a large gulp and smiled up at Neil.

A siren whooped outside the window, punctuated by shrieks.

“Is it always this wild?” Angela asked.

Neil’s eyebrows rose. “Mmm. All those punters want in and they haven’t got tickets. Sold out weeks ago.”

“Wild? Tell them about last night, Nell.” Paul said.

“Ha. Last night.” Neil shook his head. “Security was a bit spare, so I went into the theatre with Mal to help him on one side of the stage. We have to keep the women off them,” he explained. “Stop them from storming the stage. Soon as the boys came out the girls charged the stage like a manic tide—“

Paul laughed. “I could hardly play I was laughin’ so hard. Lookin’ down on Mal and Nell standing there in no man’s land with these girls climbing over the seats and the other patrons like a medieval horde, flinging themselves at them.”

“I'd catch one girl and try to push her back up the aisle and four more'd launch themselves at me,” Neil continued. “I’m just trying not to fall down under a crush of massed bodies, right? This one girl flings herself at me, utterly distraught, weeping uncontrollably. I hold on like death, and suddenly she relaxes. ‘Oh, this is nice,’ she says.”

They all laughed at the image.

“About this time I see Mal, his tie askew, two girls beating at his chest, trying to climb over him onto the stage. He looks as though he’s been in a Liverpool brawl, except for the lipstick on his cheek and the huge grin on his face.”

They were still laughing when George called from across the room. “Paul, John, come ‘ead.”

“I gotta go work.” Paul motioned to the table of food. “Help yourself. Mi casa es su casa and all that.” He gave Marisol a squeeze and his lips brushed her cheek.

Angela grabbed Marisol's hand and pulled her to the leather sofa that John had just vacated. They arranged themselves carefully so as not to send either of the abandoned guitars clattering to the bare wooden floor. Their eyes met. "He kissed you," Angela observed.

"I noticed that," Marisol said.

"Bugger me, mate. I want someone to hold my face and kiss me like that."

Marisol watched the band lining up for photographs. "I've never seen them in those suits before. It just became real to me that I've been dating Beatle Paul."

Angela took another gulp of her drink. "Well, he obviously fancies you. And he's a charmer. I can see how he pulls the girls left and right."

"What's this we're drinking?" Marisol asked to change the subject.

"Scotch and Coke."

"If England had ice and sunshine it would be paradise."

"What is it with Americans and their ice obsession? Ice only gets in the way if you're trying to drink fast." Angela drained the glass and stood. "I'll have another, thanks for asking."

"Woah. Slow down, cowgirl."

"I drink because you drive."

"Noted."

Across the room a photographer shouted instructions. "Heads up. Paul, up the head. George, could you look more interested?"

Neil arranged chairs around a small table as the reporters tested their tape recorders.

"What's Neil's story?" Angela whispered, plopping down on the sofa with her drink. "I find him rather foxy."

Marisol paused. “Really?” She peered at Neil across the room, standing at the edge of the crowd, hands on his slim hips, watching the band members take their seats. He looked like he could be one of their brothers. "To me he's forever ten years old, running around the garden with a stick for a rifle, liberating France, always getting shot by the Nazis and making me nurse him back to health with my grandmother’s scones. I always had to be the fawning nurse or the grateful French mademoiselle."

"I wouldn't mind being his grateful nurse,” Angela said. "If you know what I mean. And I think you do."

Marisol stared at her friend. "You don't say."

On the other side of the room, John was nursing a paper cup with steam coming out of it, a tea kettle on the table in front of him. Paul was signing his name to a stack of autograph books and passing them one by one to John, who ignored them. Ringo lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew out a long plume of smoke. George sat with shoulders hunched, dark eyes solemnly peering at the reporters from beneath his fringe of bangs.

“John, it’s said you have the most ‘Goon-type’ humor of the four Beatles,” a reporter said.

“Who said that?”

“I think I read it in one of the newspapers.”

“You know what the newspapers are like.”

“What are they like?”

“Wrong.”

The interviewer laughed. “You were interested in poetry in school.”

“Who says?”

“It’s written in a book compiled by the Beatles and entitled, The Beatles.”

John laughed. “I haven’t read that book.” He added more of the steaming beverage to the paper cup, took a gulp and grimaced.

“Ringo, I’ve been told you get more fan mail than the others. Why do you suppose that is?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it’s because more people write me.”

The room rang with laughter.

“Where do your hairstyles originate from?”

“Our scalps,” said George.

“George, how different is your life now compared to what it was four years ago?”

“Everything has changed. We don’t have a private life anymore.”

“Are you able to go out to dinner, to restaurants?”

“Yes, we can go to certain restaurants. We go to ones where the people are so snotty they pretend they don’t know us.”

“Social commentary, that,” Paul said, not looking up from the photo he was signing.

“Paul, you were very much younger when this enormous success started, and you’re riding the summit of it now. Do you see it interfering with the flow of your life?”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘very much younger.’ It was only a year ago.”

“But you’ve been working since ’58, haven’t you?”

“Well, yeah…not working, you know. I mean, strictly speaking we’ve been out of work since ’58 and doing this as a hobby. I think the main thing is now that, as we’ve got ourselves a bit of security, we don’t really have to worry what we’re gonna do after it. So we don’t.”

“Does it bother you that you can’t hear yourself sing?” someone asked the group.

“No, we have all the records at home,” John said.

Laughter filled the room again.

“They can make as much row as they like,” John continued. “I reckon they’ll move on to something else in another nine months or so. The day they desert us, I’ll be wondering how I’m going to pay for my whisky-and-cokes. At the moment, we’re at the peak. Things can’t get much more hysterical than they are now.”

The door opened and a voice called, “Beatles, five minutes!”

Neil took command. “Right-o. Thank you. Outside now, please.”

Journalists and photographers began packing up.

John shouted, “All visitors ashore please, the ship is leaving. All ashore.”

Paul motioned to Marisol. She joined him in front of the mirrors, watching as he straightened his tie and smoothed his hair.

A young police cadet hesitantly approached Paul with a show program. “Would you sign this please?”

“Pleasure,” Paul said, taking the program and pen.

“It’s for my wife,” said the cadet.

“With love to ‘my wife’,” Paul said, signing his name. “There you are. Cheers, thanks very much, ta.”

“That’s it! Thank you. Outside now,” Neil said to the lingering journalists.

“Right then,” Paul said to Marisol. “After the show we’ve gotta leg it to the van with Neil. Come right back to the drezzy and wait for Mal. He’ll get you to the after party.”

Marisol was focused on Paul buttoning his shirt cuffs. It was a beautiful thing, watching a man in a well-fitting suit button his cuffs. “Er…One question. What’s a drezzy?”

“Right here, love. The dressing room.”

She nodded. “Got it.”

“See you soon, love.” He bounced to the door to join the rest of the band, threw her a wave, and disappeared into the hall.

The room emptied. Angela and Marisol looked at each other. “The after-party?” Angela croaked.

“Oh yeah. Do you wanna come?”

“Not half! Crikey Moses. I love my life tonight."

From the door Neil beckoned to them. He took them to the wings of the stage where several other performers had gathered to watch the show. Marisol and Angela perched on wooden stools and watched the band plug in and take their positions. Ringo climbed onto a riser and settled behind his drum kit. Paul strapped on his Hofner violin bass and stood closest to them, followed by George in the middle with his Gretsch guitar and John on the far left of the stage with his Rickenbacker.

The screams of the crowd spooled up on the other side of the curtain as the announcer took the stage. He announced the band with the curtain closed, but the moment they heard their name they started playing, then the drapes parted and they were off.

“The sensational BEATLES!!”

“Gonna tell Aunt Mary, ‘bout Uncle John! He claim he has the misery but he’s havin’ a lot of fun oh baby!” Paul tore into “Long Tall Sally” and hit the notes right off, the others struck up behind him, the curtains swished open and there they were: seasoned rockers in their uniform dark jackets, drainpipe trousers and those zippered boots.

It was like an explosion of sound. The shrieking was ear splitting. The fans swarmed the stage in a wave of energy, a sea of upturned faces transfixed on the three singers in the front line with their ear-grabbing harmonies and Ringo backing them up with the boom-boom-boom of his bass drum. Wooden heels stomping on the stage, their personalities shining: John startling, Paul charming, George smiling, Ringo wide-eyed, and all of them enthusiastically giving their all and looking very happy to be there.

Marisol and Angela leaped to their feet simultaneously. There was no way they could’ve remained sitting. They clasped hands and laughed into each other’s faces. “Amazing!” Angela yelled.

The song ended to ear splitting screams and a synchronized group bow. John turned around to Ringo and plucked a few notes, then spun on his heel, stepped to the microphone and yelled out a greeting to the thousand faces in front of him. "We're the Beatles and we're going to play you some rock 'n' roll!" The crowd went mad.

They flew through their set list, playing the radio hits John and Paul had written. They shook their heads and sang “whoooo” and the crowd went berserk. Paul screamed like a madman off mic and the audience went even more berserk. They shared microphones, smiling at each other as they ducked and weaved to dodge boxes of candy and other gifts being hurled onto the stage.

Young women in various states of delirium flooded the aisle and surged like a wave towards the front. Mal stood at the apron of the stage in a line of security men. If any fans got onstage, they were picked up and thrown back into the crowd.

During one song, a girl came flying out of the wings stage left and launched herself onto John. Seeing her coming, he quickly whipped his guitar around out of the way and hugged her for about ten seconds before two security guards dragged her struggling away. John seemed almost sorry, shrugging his shoulders as she was led away.

“I’ve never seen anything like this!” Angela shouted. Twenty feet away from the Beatles and their amps and the shrieking audience, they had to scream into each other's ears to be heard.

Marisol felt her senses reeling from the pure electric blast of guitars and drums and the visual performance in front of her. They had confidence, cockiness, a spring in their step, and a magical stage presence. She had never heard a band sound like this. She had never seen a band look like this.

She couldn’t take her eyes off Paul, standing out there onstage, his body coiled like a spring, fingers dancing on the frets of the Hofner violin bass, his sweet clear piercing voice, his heart in his music. He leaned into the microphone, sweaty and glowing. "Are you all enjoying yourselves?"

A roar of screams came back but he shook his head. "I can't hear ya. Do ya want some more?" The next round of screams drowned out the opening riff of "Roll Over Beethoven."

Between songs John scooped up several pairs of women's undies and thanked the ladies profusely for their "generous gifts" before yelling into the microphone, “Back on the 23rd for polkas and more fun!” The crowd roared. They went crazy for the closing number, John Lennon’s throat-shredding performance of "Twist and Shout," his howling vocal ending with Paul’s triumphant “Heyyy!” Before the last note had died away, the Beatles were running off the stage to the wailing of a thousand protesting fans.

“Oh my god, my ulcer,” she heard Paul yell as he ran offstage, then “Nell, have you got a ciggy?”

Paul turned around at the exit, gave her a thumbs up, and they were gone.

 

 


	11. Hold Me Tight

Moments after the Beatles left the building, Mal was climbing onto the riser at the back of the stage, dismantling Ringo's drum kit. The wooden floor was littered with boxes of chocolates with notes attached, stuffed animals, articles of clothing, and colorful bits of smashed candies. Beyond the curtain the screams from the theatre died down while "God Save the Queen" played, but as soon as it was over the screaming started up again.

With her ears still ringing. Marisol slouched on the sofa in the dressing room and watched Angela fix herself a drink. A telephone jangled on a table in front of the sofa.

Angela settled beside her holding a tumbler of scotch. "They were dead brilliant."

"Brilliant," Marisol mumbled in agreement, remembering Paul in that dark suit. _Sweet heavens. He was born to wear that suit. He looked pretty amazing in jeans and a rumpled shirt, too, with his hair all mussed and a five o'clock shadow, leaning over her on her grandmother's couch, his eyes dark with desire, his hand sliding up her thigh--_

“Now I know what all the fuss is about.” Angela's voice brought Marisol out of her reverie.

"It's like..." Marisol floundered, trying to find the words for how she felt, seeing the band perform for the first time. “Do you know how some performers have that elusive quality that forces every pair of eyes to track them onstage? It’s more than charisma, it’s magnetism, and the Beatles have it, all four of them. Stage presence.”

“That's why all over the country girls are going off their nuts. Sensory overload,” Angela said. "I've never seen a crowd as crackers as that. Bloody madness. I'm deafened."

The phone beside them continued to ring. "Geez, what is it with this phone?"

"Cor, just answer it." Angela jerked up the receiver. "Hello?" After a pause she said, "Sorry love, there's no one here but us charwomen." Another pause. "All right love, will do. Stop ringing the phone, will you?"

Angela replaced the receiver with a laugh. "Please tell Paul McCartney he doesn't know me but I'm very pretty and I'll be in the third booth at the Coffee House after the show," she repeated in a breathless Midlands accent.

Marisol gave an unamused laugh. "Another case of sensory overload." She noticed a guestbook on the table and picked it up, flipping to the last page of names. Paul, George and Ringo had all signed it, each giving "London" as their address. On the last line someone had signed "Elvis Presley" with the address "Heartbreak Hotel." In the comments column “Elvis” had written "Love Meat Tender."

Mal wandered in and out, carrying equipment and suitcases and band members’ personal belongings. When the crowd outside the stage door had dispersed and the dressing room was empty of Beatles gear, Mal drove them to their car, instructing them to follow him to the hotel.

Dozens of girls milled around the hotel, clutching autograph books and cameras, chattering and squealing. Marisol and Angela followed Mal briskly through the lobby and into an elevator. On the fourth floor he flashed his ID to a security guard.

At the end of the hallway he let them into a typical English hotel room, all oranges and greens, with two twin beds and a low dresser. A door in the center of one wall led into a living area with a single long sofa and a collection of lounge chairs. Against the wall was a sideboard with sodas and the ubiquitous bottles of single malt scotch.

"Hitch Hike" by Marvin Gaye played from a portable record player on a table in the corner. Nearby George and Ringo with drinks in hand chatted up two striking brunettes wearing heavy eye makeup and tight dresses. Marisol quickly scanned the room and didn't see Paul.

"Hemingway! Come ‘ere and bring yer friend." John beckoned to her from the sofa. He was still dressed in his stage clothes of dark pants and white shirt, tie loosened, and he now wore his heavy dark rimmed eyeglasses.

"Good job tonight, Hero!" Marisol arranged herself next to John. "This is my friend Angela," she said, making room on the sofa.

"Charmed," John said, fixing Angela with a silly stare over tops of his glasses and affecting a mock German accent. "So, Miz Hemingway, vot do you zink of ze Beatles electronic noise?"

"The Beatles were marvelous, but we were deafened by your fans."

"We excite them," John said. “Incite them. And sometimes we bite them."

Angela laughed. ”I like your glasses. Why don't you wear them onstage?"

"Gods don’t wear glasses." John sipped from a flask and screwed the top back on.

“What are you drinking?” Marisol asked.

“Eh, my voice is still shredded from twelve hours in the studio with a sore throat. I’m partaking of the bloody National Beverage, and one of Neil’s jobs is to keep it bloody filled. And hot. Neil! Where the bloody hell are ya?” John bellowed towards the adjoining room.

Marisol made a sympathetic noise. Then she remembered something. "Did you hear Elvis was supposedly at the show tonight?"

John nodded as if he half expected the question. "I can't comment on that. Not ready to release any sort of statement."

Ringo appeared in front of them with two glasses of the inevitable scotch and Coke. "You look empty," he said, handing them each a glass.

Angela elbowed her in the ribs.

"Oh, Ringo? This is my friend Angela."

Angela's smile was dazzling. "Ringo. You are my favorite drummer in the world." She looped a strand of hair behind her ear and looked up at him adoringly. "I don't know any other drummers actually but it wouldn't matter if I did."

"Ta," Ringo said. "You are my favorite Angela. Do you dance?"

"Do I dance? Like a spinning top!" Angela stole a glance at Marisol, her eyes huge. "Pinch me!" she whispered, before following Ringo to the record player.

"Ringo loves to get out from behind his kit and cut loose," John said.

"How are Cynthia and Julian?" Marisol set her untouched drink on the coffee table in front of them.

"I've barely seen them. With any luck they’ll still be there when I get home.” He gave her a silly close-lipped smile.

"Well, it's good you're still smiling."

"Until I get home. Then my wife will wipe this smile off my face."

He crossed an ankle over one knee and picked at the bottom of his boot.

"Wives are good at that I suppose." Marisol lifted her gaze and saw Paul in the doorway, having what looked like a serious conversation with Neil. In jeans and a T-shirt with a towel around his neck, hair damp and face flushed, he was so gorgeous it took her breath away.

"Here you are." John held out a closed fist, pulling her attention away from Paul.

Her hand opened automatically and John dropped something orange and sticky into her palm.

"What on earth is this?"

"A gift from our fans.”

She was still staring at her palm with distaste when Paul settled on the table in front of them.

He drew one finger slowly across her knee and she felt a jolt of electricity. “Hey, you. Need anything?”

She shook her head.

“You've been jelly babied I see.”

“Is that what it is?”

“Must be the stickiest substance known to man. By the end of the show they’re all over the stage. It looks like I’m doing some kind of new dance move but I’m only trying to lift me feet off the floor.”

He scraped the candy from her palm into the empty ashtray on the table beside him.

“Thanks.” She smiled into his eyes. “You were amazing tonight, by the way."

"Thanks, love." He lit a cigarette and looked at John. ”Neil says the bloody Vox is clapped out.”

John made a face. “Yeah, he told me.”

“We need something bigger.” Paul took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke over his shoulder, away from them. "And what was all that buzzing midway in?”

John shrugged. "We've lost that ruddy cord."

Paul was silent for a moment, mouth set in annoyance. "So only that one cord can conduct the 69 giga watts of juice we need to rock," he said, smirking. He looked at Marisol and his face softened. "Did you like the show, love? Could you hear anything?"

"Yes, it was fantastic. I love the way you started off with a rock number, then something bluesy, then a dance song, then--"

"That's how we do it," John interrupted. "You've got to kick off with a corker. We pound you, pet you, pound you, pet you, pound you once more and we're out of there."

"I feel very petted and pounded," Marisol said, laughing.

"Don't laugh," Paul said. "You'll only encourage him."

John gave her a sidelong glance. "That's right, love. We give it to you fast, then we give it to you slow, then we just give it to you unrelentingly until the end of the show and then you walk out with a limp."

Marisol flashed John a disbelieving look, then burst into laughter.

"Bang out of order, you nobhead," Paul said.

"Shurrup, you tosser," John shot back.

Through a haze of smoke, Paul regarded John thoughtfully. "I thought we sounded kinda crappy tonight. Did we sound crappy to you?"

"How would I know, Paul. I heard nothing but the wailing of a thousand dying cats.”

“Precisely."

"Well, we've lost that ruddy cord, you know."

Paul rolled his eyes to the ceiling and took another drag on his cigarette.

"I thought the sound was great, seriously." Marisol said. "And I could hear...ah...a lot of the words..."

Across the room Angela give a ‘whoop’ as "Twenty Flight Rock" began playing on the record player. Marisol saw Angela had kicked off her heels and was dancing a twist with Ringo.

John asked Paul for a cigarette and a light and took a long drag. “Did I ever tell you about the day I first met Macca?” he asked Marisol.

She shook her head.

“I was almost seventeen, and I had a band, and my mate Ivan brought this baby-faced kid to meet me. The first thing the kid does is tune my guitar correctly. I had it tuned like a banjo, because that's all I knew, you see. Then he turns it upside down, since he’s left-handed, and he cranks out a perfect rendition of this song, "Twenty Flight Rock." He knew all the words. That knocked my socks off, but next he does a spot on screaming imitation of Little Richard.”

Marisol smiled and tried to catch Paul’s eye. He seemed in a world of his own, one knee bouncing up and down, fiddling with the cigarette lighter, eyes unfocused, staring into the middle distance through a curtain of cigarette smoke. Over his shoulder she noticed one of the heavily made up brunettes had wrapped an arm around George’s neck and was whispering into his ear. The other girl seemed to be fixated on the back of Paul’s head. She suddenly looked directly at Marisol, eyes narrowing. Marisol blinked away.

“I’m sitting there, gobsmacked,” John continued. “and he hands me the guitar and sits back, this barely fifteen year old kid, puffing serenely on a cigarette. I said to myself, ‘Fook me.’ I had to decide if I wanted to let this kid in the band who was better than the rest of us. But he looked like Elvis, and I dug him.”

"So you think it was the right decision?"

John grimaced at Paul. “I dunno. It’s a pain in the arse having to keep him reined in all the time.”

Marisol looked at Paul again, staring into space, deep in his own head. He was on a magic carpet, 10,000 feet over Baghdad, bereft of the legendary McCartney smile that he always wore for the public.

Behind him she noticed George extricating himself from the girl. He walked over and perched on the armrest next to John. “Neil says Jennings could make a bigger Vox special for us,” she heard him say.

John nodded, a bored look on his face. He glanced at Marisol, his eyes lighting up. "George, show Miss Hemingway how we've been practicing our huge, scary American smiles for when we go abroad."

"Oh, aye." George leaned his head close to John's. They both put a finger horizontally between their teeth and pulled it out, widening their eyes and showing off their toothiest, cheesiest grins.

Marisol couldn't help grinning back. "That's lovely, boys."

They continued mugging until Mal walked by carrying a tray of sandwiches and crisps. "About bloody time," George said. He followed the tray of food across the room and was soon joined by John.

Marisol watched Paul blow a series of smoke rings toward the ceiling, his leg still bobbing up and down. She leaned forward and rested her hand on his knee. The bouncing stopped. “Everything okay?” she asked.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Not pleased with the sound tonight. When we can't hear ourselves sing we tend to go flat.” He looked at her and he seemed to relax. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, a smile tugging his lips.

She smiled back at him, but her gaze was drawn again to the girls standing behind him. One of them was turned to the mirror, applying lipstick, and the other girl was definitely glaring at her.

Paul touched her chin, pulling her attention back. His smile was so sweet it melted everything inside her. “Did you have a good time, love?”

“Of course.” She lowered her voice. “I was just wondering why this girl behind you is staring daggers at me.”

Paul didn’t bother turning around. “Don’t mind those birds. They’ve been following us since Southport.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned in close, his mouth inches away from her ear. She smelled the cigarette on his breath and the soap from his recent bath. "Let’s get out of here, shall we?” he whispered.

Marisol felt something shift inside her. She wanted to be alone with him more than she’d wanted anything in a very long time. So what if there were a dozen actresses riding around in limos with him every other night of the week, tonight he was all hers.

In her stocking feet, Angela was twisting to a Chubby Checker song with Ringo on one side of her and Neil on the other. Marisol tapped her on the shoulder. "Would you miss me if I disappeared for a bit?"

Angela brushed a lock of damp hair from her forehead and said, "Do I look lonely? Because I can't remember ever being less lonely."

"Ok...have Neil call Paul if you need anything."

 

Paul smiled at her and held out his hand. She grew a little breathless with the knowledge that he’d played his guitar tonight for hundreds of adoring, screaming fans with the fingers he currently had wrapped around hers. He swung their arms a little as they walked down the hall, tossing flirty glances and coy smiles her way. He had this way of making her feel special, wanted, chosen, and she bit her bottom lip to keep from grinning like a swooning fangirl.

In Paul's room she set her overnight bag on the dresser and looked around. A table in the corner held a portable record player with a small pile of records beside it. A guitar was propped against a wooden chair next to the battered brown briefcase Paul carried everywhere. The room was neat as a pin except for a few record sleeves scattered on the floor. Even the double bed against the wall looked unslept-in, covered with a white bedspread. The bed that she would be rolling around in very soon. With Paul. If she didn't pass out first from her erratic breathing.

 

Paul took the towel from around his neck and tossed it on a chair. When he turned to look at her, his presence seemed to fill up the room. He smiled slowly and her heart stuttered. He took a step towards her and she took an involuntary step closer to him.

“I like your hair up like this.” He slid his hand onto her shoulder, his fingers resting on the back of her neck.

She wondered if he could feel her pulse racing.

“I just noticed something,” he said.

“What’s that?” she asked, her voice sounding breathless.

“You’re not wearing your engagement ring.”

“No.”

“Since we saw each other last.”

“Yes, you were right. It was time.”

He cocked his head and smiled at her. “I like the ‘no engagement ring’ look. It’s a good look for you.”

His thumb stroked her lower lip and he stared at it as if mesmerized.

Her heart hammered. Oh dear god. He was so beautiful. He was going to kiss her, and it would be checklist complete. Parking brake off. Cleared for takeoff. They’d be on the bed and her clothes would magically fall off and she would see him naked and they would touch each other everywhere and it had been far too long since she'd had a night like this. She was seconds away from being another of his conquests and she didn’t even know his middle name.

_Holy shit she didn’t even know his middle name._

“What’s your middle name?” she blurted.

He tilted his head, a tiny smile at the corner of his lips. “Paul. It’s James Paul, after my father.”

She exhaled. “Good. James Paul McCartney. That’s a good name.”

His smile grew wider. “Okay. What is your middle name?”

“Rose.”

“Marisol Rose?”

She loved the way he said her name. The low timbre of his voice, the curling vowels. Then again, he could read his grocery list and it would sound like poetry. “You say my name better than anyone ever has.”

“I should,” he murmured, winking. “It’s officially my new favorite name.”

Oh. She wondered if he could hear the way her heart dropped into her stomach because it felt like the sound reverberated through the room.  
Her head was full of words but nothing came out. Every hair on her arms stood on end as he watched her, waiting for a reaction.

He dropped his hand from her shoulder and snapped his fingers. “Do you know what’s missing right now?”

She blinked. “Uh…”

“Music.” He went to the table and picked up a stack of LPs.

Her breath came out in a shudder. _Damn._

"Any requests?"

She stared at his lean back and hips for a few seconds before walking over and leaning against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Just you."

He chuckled, turning and gathering her in her arms. “That’s exactly what I need to hear tonight."

Piano music began to play and Paul took her hand in his and wrapped his other arm around her waist, dancing her slowly around the room, softly singing “If I go a million miles away, I’d write a letter each and every day…”

She rested her head on his shoulder, smiling against his neck. “What is this?”

“Mr. Soul. Sam Cooke.”

“Beautiful.”

She let her thoughts drift away, lost in the music and the masculine scent of him and the feel of his breath next to her ear, his hand on her lower back, holding her close.

There was no place in the world she’d rather be right now than in this tiny, nondescript hotel room in a sleepy English town, dancing to the most romantic music she’d ever heard with this man who made her heart race just by looking at her.

_Dear England, You are brilliant. Love, Marisol._

He continued singing softly. “You’re the girl of my my my my dreams…but if you wanted to leave me and roam, when you got back, I’d just say welcome home…”

Beside the bed he paused, reached a hand into her hair and pulled out the clip that held it in place, letting it drop to the floor and watching her hair cascade down around her shoulders.

“There you are. The long-haired beauty who turned my head all those weeks ago.”

He cupped the side of her face, his thumb tracing along her cheekbone as he leaned in and gently pressed his lips to hers. It was a chaste kiss, all too brief. Her heart pounded furiously as she waited for his next move.

He pulled back slightly and met her gaze, almost as if gauging her reaction. Then he leaned in and proceeded to kiss her breathless.

There was a moment—before their lips began to move together—when time seemed suspended. It was like being in an airplane, poised on the end of the runway the seconds before takeoff—the heady anticipation, throttles trembling, the inevitability of what was coming next.

Then their lips pressed deeply together, her tongue sliding into the warmth of his mouth. A low sound of desire came from his throat. She felt his fingers at the base of her neck, running through her hair, tilting her head back as he kissed her more deeply.

She kissed him back, leaning into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and tangling her fingers in his silky hair. She kissed him back like he was the embodiment of every erotic fantasy she’d had for the past month.

_Oh, wait, he was._

He nuzzled her neck, trailing kisses to her earlobe. “You want me?” His voice was so soft and low it dripped over her like warm honey.

“Yes,” is all that escaped her mouth before his was upon it.

His hands moved all over her body, grasping her bottom and pulling her more deeply to him. They fitted together like they were made for each other. She let herself melt against him, feeling the thudding of his heart, and his arousal, hard and insistent, pressing against her.

Then his hands were at the hem of her sweater. He pulled back a moment. “Up,” he said.

She blinked at him, dazed.

“Lift up your arms.”

She did and he lifted the sweater over her head and let it fall like a cloud to the floor. He had her bra unfastened in seconds and tossed it somewhere behind them.

“So perfect.” He cupped the weight of her breasts in his palms. “God, Mari, I want everything to do with you.” He trailed kisses from her jaw to her collarbone. His mouth covered a nipple and she gasped, her hands gripping his hair.

He lifted his head. “You like that?”

“Y-yes," she stammered.

She slipped her hands under his t-shirt, his skin warm beneath her palms. His hands left her long enough to yank the shirt over his head and sling it across the room.

Then he grabbed her bottom again and pulled her hard against him, his mouth next to her ear and the feel of her breasts against his bare chest leaving her senseless. "Mari. I haven’t wanted a woman as much as I want you in a very long time. Maybe never. Is this crazy? I don’t care."

"Yes," she said. It was totally crazy and she didn't care either.

 

 

He pulled away from her and rummaged in his suitcase, coming back with a box of condoms, his hands shaking with impatience as he worked it open.

"I...I'm on the pill," she said, feeling herself redden.

His hands stilled as he looked at her. She wondered what he was thinking. Did he think she was promiscuous? She and Dan were engaged before they'd made love, and that was only after she'd visited her doctor wearing her ring and convinced him her wedding was only months away so she needed to start birth control pills. She'd only known Paul a month and she was ready to leap into bed with him, no commitment, no declarations of love, just because he told her how much he wanted her. Because she wanted him just as much. She wasn't in the States any more. And it wasn't the Fifties.

Paul tossed the box on the nightstand and reached for her again. "Come here, love. I go weak in the knees just looking at you." His voice was husky next to her ear. He bent his head and kissed her neck while his hands roamed her body. She heard the zipper of her skirt and felt it pooling at her feet. He kicked off his shoes and they separated again while he tripped—literally—out of his jeans. She stepped out of the skirt, slipped off her shoes and reached for her stockings.

“Let me," Paul said. He gently pushed her onto the bed and knelt in front of her. Slowly he unrolled a stocking, chasing it with his tongue, licking her bare skin from the inside of her thigh to the inside of her calf to the back of her ankle. “I’d like to thank the genius who invented garterless stockings,” he murmured.

"Oh my god," Marisol whispered, falling onto her back and gripping the coverlet with both hands. She bit back a moan as he began unrolling the second stocking, leaving a trail of kisses on the inside of her leg as he went. Sweet agony.

He stood between her bare legs, staring down at her. She lifted herself onto her elbows to meet his eyes, but was unable to look away from the bulge in his underwear. Red underwear. “Like a Christmas present," she mumbled, and somewhere in the back of her mind she realized how ridiculous that sounded when he began to chuckle. No more talking, she told herself.

She crawled toward the pillows and he followed, settling down beside her. His eyes met hers, so dark she thought she would drown in them. He ran his hand down her hip to the back of her knee, pulled her leg around his hip. She could feel how ready he was, hard and straining against her.

He skimmed a hand down her side and slid it under her panties and between her legs. “Tell me what you like,” he urged.

She didn’t know what to say. She closed her eyes. His hands stilled. She opened her eyes and he was still gazing at her so she said. “This. And you. I like you.”

He smiled then, so pleased. “I like you too, Mari. Very, very much.”

She slid her hand down his smooth chest and inside the waistband of his briefs, wrapping it around the smooth hardness of him. He groaned into her neck.

Then there was only breath and touching, the taste and feel of their bodies, tracing and kissing all the places they’d hidden from each other. A flash of pain as he shifted his hips and slid inside her, chanting her name. The stretch of him inside her felt so new, so unexpected, that she cried out. He turned his head and covered her mouth with his. He said something she couldn’t make out, then he lowered his head with a moan that vibrated against her throat.

He wasn’t quiet. He let out a gust of pleasure with every thrust, sounds of abandonment that made her forget her nerves, her misgivings, her caution, and then her entire existence narrowed to just the two of them, their bodies fitting together perfectly, Paul’s deep voice in her ear murmuring “yeah…oh yeah…” as he slid in and back out of her.

She wanted to touch every inch of him, to watch his face as he reacted to her hands, to the sight of her naked beneath him. As a lover he was sweet and gentle and focused on her. When he clutched her tight and whispered in great detail what he loved about her body and all the things he wanted to do to her and how, all she wanted was more of it, more of him, and she held on to him for dear life as a myriad of sensations shuddered through her.

When later they pulled apart, Paul rested his lips against her neck, his hands still holding her close. She listened to the raised tempo of his breathing, matching hers. “Good Lord, Mari, you've wrecked me,” he whispered.

He rolled onto his back and reached for a packet of cigarettes and lighter from the nightstand. After a few drags on the cigarette, he turned his head on the pillow to look at her. “Come here, Beauty.”

What a picture he made, his hair almost black against the white pillowcase, his eyes hooded and drowsy, his nervous fidgeting stilled for once. She rolled over and curled against him, draping a leg over his, her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, feeling his thrumming heartbeat beneath her fingers.

He took a long drag on the cigarette and massaged her neck with his free hand. “What took us so long? We could've been doing this for a month.”

“I probably should've said 'oh, screw it' and gone to London with you that first day.”

"We'd be married by now, a kid on the way."

"We just made a rhyme."

"Happens all the time."

They laughed together and he kissed her hair. She watched his eyes drift closed, giving her the opportunity to study him from inches away. He must have the darkest eyelashes she'd ever seen.

Suddenly there was a scream in the corridor, increasing in volume. “POLL! POLLLLL! HELP ME!” The sound of running feet. A door slammed. Heavier feet pounded down the hallway. A very loud thump directly outside the door shook the room and was followed immediately by a low groan.

Marisol jerked upright. “What the hell was that?”

Paul opened his eyes and leisurely tapped the ash from his cigarette into the glass ashtray on the nightstand. “Sounded like Malcolm tripping over his feet to me.”

She lowered herself into the crook of his arm, brushing her hair from her eyes. “Does that happen a lot?”

"Sure. Have you seen the size of his feet?"

Laughing, she said, "No, I mean girls running down the corridors screaming your name."

"Yeah, 'course. They're always trying to break into our rooms. We find them hiding in the closets, in the bathtub, under the bed. Surreal, innit?”

“What do you do when you find them?”

He chuckled. “Are you having me on?”

“No. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a stranger jump out at you in a hotel room. I’ll probably have nightmares about it.”

“Well, it depends,” he said. “I found you jotting on my van and look where we’ve ended up.”

She smiled against his neck. “You’re so naughty.”

His lips brushed her temple. “Mmm. Your hair smells nice.”

"It smells like you. We've been rubbing all over each other for the past hour.”

“Hmm. Could be.”

He stubbed out the cigarette and began whistling a tune she’d never heard before. His fingers on her back drummed out a rhythm while his other hand described patterns in the air before them. “I’ve got this melody in my head, I think it might be something…”

To her surprise, he swung his arm from beneath her head and climbed out of bed, snatching up pieces of his clothing on his way to the table. He yanked his t-shirt over his head. Whistling softly, he pulled on his jeans. Without underwear, she noted.

“This song, I’m so close,” Paul said, holding his thumb and index finger about an inch apart, and to her amazement he walked past her carrying his six string guitar and disappeared into the bathroom.

Alone in bed, she felt her eyelids grow heavy as guitar music filtered in from the bathroom. Here and there he’d add a line of lyrics or hum along with the melody. For a moment she thought she might fall asleep to the sound of his playing. Then the phone next to the bed sounded the insistent double ring peculiar to Britain and her eyes flew open.

“Paul?” she called after the third ring-ring. “Shouldn’t we answer that?”

“Nah. It’s probably a fan got through.”

“What if it’s Angela? I may need to get her a room.”

No answer from the bathroom. Marisol picked up the phone. If it was a fan she’d hang up. “Hello?”

There was a moment’s hesitation before a soft, posh voice said, “Oh. Pardon me, I was meant to have room 415, have they misconnected me?”

There is such a thing as female intuition, of that she was certain, and Marisol knew with 100% certainty that the girl on the other end of the line was the very same lovely young thing who had spent the weekend being squired around London with the man she'd just been rolling around in bed with. What had she been thinking? Her head swam, the room shifted, her vision blurred. She could barely make out the 3 digit room number taped to the telephone set. She drew in a breath and let it out again before speaking. “Yes. I’m afraid they have. They've misconnected you.”

“I'm terribly sorry. I'll ring back.”

The receiver fell from her hand, clattering, and it took three attempts to hang it up properly. Marisol perched on the edge of the bed, stunned at having just spoken to Paul's girlfriend. And she had to tell him, before the girl called back. Her discarded clothes were all over the floor and that would take too much time to sort out. She wrapped a bed sheet around herself and shuffled to the bathroom doorway.

Paul sat on the closed lid of the toilet with the guitar across his lap. Bare feet, tousled hair, looking devastating. No man should be that pretty. It had clearly ruined him. He looked up from the guitar and smiled sweetly at the sight of her. “Hi Beauty.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Paul. The phone was for you. They’re…she’s …going to call back.”

“Listen love. Could you grab my notebook and a pen out of my briefcase? I need to get this down.”

“Fine, but…”

He looked back at the guitar, strummed a chord and made a tuning adjustment. “I know science can make a guitar that stays in tune. I know this because they’ve developed salt and vinegar flavored crisps.”

Marisol sighed and tightened the sheet around her. Back in the bedroom, she dropped the sheet. She slipped into her panties and pulled a sweater and a pair of black pedal pushers from her overnight bag. She donned the spare clothes and sagged down on the edge of the bed, listening to the music coming from the bathroom, wondering about the girl on the other end of the phone line. A girl who knew Paul well enough to know what hotel he was staying in and how to be put through to him. A girl who waited for him back home in London. Along with who knew how many others.

Now the melody seemed to have more lyrics, sung at random times. She hugged her knees to her chest and shivered. In the space of a few minutes she’d gone from feeling like the luckiest girl in the world to the stupidest. She gnawed at a nail. Well. She couldn’t say she hadn’t been warned.

“Mari?”

Her head jerked up when she heard him call from the bathroom.

“My notebook?”

“I’m coming,” she called back, a little more testily than she’d intended.

The briefcase was stuffed with loose papers. She moved them out of the way and pulled out a pen and a high school composition notebook. She flipped through it, recognizing Paul’s careful handwriting. Some of the pages were written in a bolder hand, printed in all capital letters. John’s writing, she suspected. At the top of each page of lyrics were the words “another Lennon-McCartney original.”

Before closing the briefcase, she noticed a mimeographed piece of paper and pulled it out. It was a list of Beatles engagements for the month of August. She glanced over the dates and venues, shocked to see there was not a single day off all month and they were often in a different town every night. She had no idea of the distances involved, since some of the towns she’d never heard of, but the constant traveling must be grueling. They had to be exhausted. From all of the activity on the road. Different hotel rooms every night. Different…bed partners? She shook her head, refusing to let her thoughts go down that road. After the phone call, she was humiliated enough.

There was an asterisk by one of the shows and a handwritten note: “This is an important show, boys. You need to look sharp and be prepared to handle questions from the press--Brian.”

She tucked the paper back inside the briefcase and closed the lid.

In the bathroom Paul looked up and motioned for her to set the notebook and pen on the edge of the tub. She watched as his beautiful long fingers shaped a series of chords. “It goes E minor…to A seventh…to D minor,” he said to himself.

“Why are you in the bathroom?” she couldn’t help asking.

“The acoustics.” He strummed a chord and smiled at her. “Hear that?”

The phone began to ring.

Marisol didn’t smile back. “Paul. I answered the phone. It wasn't Angela. It was a girl asking for you. She's calling back.”

He shrugged, looking completely unconcerned. He began picking out a beautiful, lilting melody, humming along.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He looked up at her and seemed to come out of his music induced trance. “You’re dressed.”

“I need to check on Angela.”

Back in the room, she gathered up the rest of her things and stuffed them in her bag, her thoughts straying to the last time she had spent a night alone with Dan. It had been so easy with Dan. There were no other women in his life. No girls racing down the hallway, begging for kisses, throwing their panties at him. Because Dan was merely a sweet, ordinary American boy.

She slipped on a pair of ballet flats and zipped up the bag. How on earth had she found herself involved with a new man, and a local English celebrity of all things, so soon after losing Dan? She of all people should know better. Her own American grandparents had been wildly in love until her grandfather’s stories began receiving wide acclaim and he’d been unable to resist all the temptations of fame. He’d left his marriage and child and spent much of the rest of his life regretting it. In his final book, her Papa had written of her grandmother: “I wish I’d died before I’d ever loved anyone but her.” So much love, but that hadn’t stopped him from straying when he became famous and women started chasing him.

And hadn’t everyone warned Marisol not to expect anything from Paul? A cute band boy on radio and television could have his pick of girls. A few evenings of fun was the most she could expect from this fling. Truth be told, that was all she was ready for herself, a holiday romance to help her move on. Although she hadn’t expected to be a one night stand for the cute band boy cheating on his girlfriend.

Suddenly she felt so tired. All she wanted was a bed to sleep in. Or maybe a drink first to make her stop missing Dan and thinking so much and then a bed to sleep in. Tomorrow she'd figure out how to forget this night had ever happened.

The phone continued to ring. Seven…eight…nine rings…and finally silence. Marisol was almost at the door when Paul appeared, without his guitar, and blocked her way.

“You’re leaving?”

“I should go.”

“I don’t understand.”

She had to hand it to him. He had the innocent altar boy look down pat.

“I should give you some privacy.” She edged closer to the door.

“For what?”

The phone began to ring again.

They both looked at it, then back at each other.

“I’m just going to…” She pointed at the door.

“You don’t have to go.”

“I need to go.” She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Her heart was pounding, and it took everything she had to keep her voice light and even as the phone continued to bleat. “Thanks for the show. And…you know…tonight. It was fun.”

With a thin smile and a little wave, she slipped past him into the hallway, registering the dismayed look on his face just before the door slammed behind her.

“Fuck me…” she whispered, sagging against the door. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d slept with him, which was the first stupid thing. And she’d fallen for him, which was the worst stupid thing. Blinking back tears, she pushed her hair off her face and let out a ragged breath and turned from the door to see Ringo and a security guard standing not ten feet away.


	12. I Wanna Be Your Man

"Whoops," Marisol said, straightening. “The door just got away from me."

Ringo gave her a strange look. "Everything all right?"

Marisol ran her fingers through her hair and told herself to pull it together. "Sure, I'm just looking for Angela. What are you doing out here?"

"Can't sleep. Trying to talk this bloke into taking me to a pub."

"Oh. Good luck then." She looked up and down the hall. "I'm a little turned around...which way is Neil's room?"

He pointed. "End of the hall, last door on the right, and Bob's your uncle."

"Thanks...have a good night."

"You know your jumper is all backy wacky?"

Marisol looked down at herself. “Oh. Ha ha." She quickened her steps and rapped on the door at the end of the hall.

"Are you drunk?" Angela said, laughing.

Marisol pushed past her into the bathroom. "Unfortunately not yet."

"You look like you've been in a cyclone."

"I guess you could call it that."

"Your jumper is on backwards."

Marisol sighed. "I know. Ringo already told me." 

"Ringo? And I thought it had to do with that slice of Paul McCartney you left here with!"

The bathroom door closed on Angela's amused face.

Marisol pulled her sweater over her head and caught her reflection in the mirror as she turned it inside out. Or outside in. She looked like a wild woman, hair in a disheveled cloud around her face and mascara smudges under her eyes.

She combed her fingers through her hair and dabbed at the traces of mascara with a tissue before stepping into the bedroom.

Neil was stretched across one of the twin beds, holding a handful of playing cards. Angela sat across from him looking at her own cards. The radio played softly and the television was on with the sound turned off.

“Where’s Paul?” Neil asked.  
“Probably still sitting on the toilet playing guitar.”

Angela laughed.

“The acoustics are better, so he says.”

“Fancy a bevvy?” Neil offered.

Marisol studied the half-filled bottles on the sideboard. “Warm Scotch and Coke. Must be my lucky day.” She poured herself a finger of Scotch and knocked it back, shuddering. She examined the bottle and brought it back with her to the bed. When she was settled, she swigged from the bottle until tears came to her eyes. Then she rather indelicately wiped her mouth with her sleeve and shuddered. “Holy balls,” she whispered.

When she looked up, Neil and Angela were both frowning at her.

“What?” she asked, her voice laced with irritation.

Angela put down her cards. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, geez.” She waved the bottle in Angela’s direction. “I just needed a drink.” She took another swig, the warmth coating her throat and settling in her shoulders and back, starting to relax her. “Mmm.” She examined the label again. “Good stuff, this whisky with no e. Made in Scotland you know." She swirled the liquid in the bottle and sniffed. "Woodsy with a hint of spice."

She waited for the warm and fuzzy feeling to take over, watching Neil and Angela exchanging glances while they pretended to play cards.

“What’re you playing?” she asked.

“Strip poker,” Angela said, grinning at Neil.

“Are you both winning?” 

“It’s strip poker with a twist. We started out naked and the loser has to put clothes back on. We’re both losing,” Angela said.

Neil chuckled, shaking his head at Angela.

There was a strange thump from the adjoining room. Marisol glanced at the closed door, then looked at Angela. “So what happened to those two girls? Did they—?”

Angela mimed zipping her lips, locking them, and throwing an imaginary key over her shoulder.

“Alrighty then,” Marisol said. “Welcome to Babylon. British style.” When the room began to tilt, she screwed the cap back on the bottle and let it drop to the carpet as she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, feeling the whisky warmth coursing through her veins. She was going to drink until she fell asleep and dreamed about someday falling in love with a nice American boy who didn’t have a girlfriend and couldn’t play the guitar. And was tone deaf.

"Can I sleep here?" she asked drowsily.

"You may sleep wherever you like," Neil answered.

"You're a nice man.”

The bed shook. Marisol ruled out an earthquake, this being the British Isles, and cracked open an eye to see Angela peering down at her.

“Do you want to go somewhere and talk?” Angela asked.

Marisol shook her head. “God no. If I move now I’ll throw up.”

“Have you eaten anything today?”

Angela bounced the bed some more and reappeared with an apple which she placed in Marisol’s hand.

“Ugh. Stop jostling me.”

“Tell me what’s happened, sweetie.”

Marisol sighed and sat up. “Something horrible has happened. I’ve started to like him. A lot.”

Angela patted her shoulder. “I’m sure he likes you too. It’s obvious. Neil? Isn’t it obvious how much he fancies her?”

They both turned to look at Neil. He winced. “Lookit. You’re off yer head if you think I’m getting in the middle of this.”

Marisol huffed out a breath. “I’m not asking you to betray your mate, Neil. But you could’ve mentioned him being in love with someone else.”

Neil snorted/laughed. “Paul isn’t in love with anyone but the Beatles.” He threw down his cards and pointed a finger at her. “But I wasn't keen on the two of you together in the first place.”

Marisol felt her pulse racing in her ears. “In the first place, you could have told me he has a girlfriend.”

Neil got up and began making a drink, loudly banging bottles and glasses. He took a long gulp and sat on the edge of the sideboard facing her. "This must be why I don't date American girls."

She scoffed at him. "Like you know any. And what's that supposed to mean anyway?"

"All of this awkward talking about your relationship and feelings. Next you'll drag him into a group therapy session with other blokes dating American girls so everyone can talk about their feelings together. An English girl would just get on with it and know the awkward bits are best forgotten."

Marisol's head spun. From the whisky or from Neil's rambling, she couldn't say. “None of that is true, but whatever. Why did you say you aren’t keen on me being with Paul?”

“Because I know the sort of girl you were and I assume you haven’t changed all that much.”

“Oh." She crossed her legs and swung a foot, realized it made her vaguely nauseous and stopped moving. “What sort is that, Neil?”

He waved a hand. “You know, the Mr. Darcy sort.”

Angela scooted closer and lightly rubbed her back. “He’s right. You are that.”

Marisol arched a brow. “And you’re not?”

“I’m more the James Dean sort.”

“I don’t even know what that means.” Marisol looked at Neil. “What is your point?”

Neil sighed and swirled the drink in his glass a moment before answering. “Sometimes it's all about timing, Mar. The Beatles thing is so consuming that none of them have the time or energy for anything else. No offense, but birds are a very distant second to any of them right now."

Marisol tapped her bottom lip with her thumbnail, thinking about all the time she'd spent with Paul, his soft kisses and sweet smiles. The way he looked at her when she talked. The way he looked at her tonight when he first saw her naked beneath him. She shivered. She hadn’t felt like a distant second with Paul. When they were together he made her feel like the most beautiful, interesting creature in the world. And when she wasn’t with him he was pursuing her with phone calls and letters. She flopped back on the bed and squeezed her eyes closed, more confused than ever.

She heard Neil take another gulp of his drink. “Cor, I dunno Mari. He clearly fancies the pants off you, but you are only here on holiday. I mean, if I met a beautiful American bird tomorrow, I don't know that I’d rearrange my life for her knowing she'd only be leaving."

Of course Paul wasn't going to break up with his British girlfriend for someone who was only here for a few more months. She bit back a groan. It was ridiculous to develop feelings for him. Everyone was always telling her that and she knew it in her bones. Stupid, stupid. She had to start thinking like a man and not a Jane Austen character. Paul was an exciting, fun diversion, but he was a big flirt and very desirable, and when she left there would be lots of women taking her place.

She felt Angela hovering over her. “If it makes you feel any better, Lizzy, you have bewitched me, body and soul.”

“I’m going to throttle you,” Marisol said. She dropped the apple and crawled across the bed after Angela. "I am not a Mr. Darcy sort, you ass."

There were five rhythmic knocks on the door, followed by two sharp knocks.

“Shave and a haircut, two bits!” Angela whooped with laughter. 

Neil went for the door and Marisol stopped stalking Angela and got to her feet, teetering unsteadily for a moment until her head stopped swimming.

“Oh look. It’s the bigamist,” Angela announced as Paul strode into the room. He stopped in front of Marisol, his stare boring into her, while she looked everywhere but at him.

“What’s going on? Why did you leave?”

“How was your phone conversation?” Marisol smiled, too brightly. Not quite meeting his eyes. “Everything good at home?”

He frowned.

Neil clapped his hands, making Marisol jump. “Would you look at that, we’re out of…” he checked the bottles on the sideboard, making a clattering inventory. “Ice. Angela, want to make an ice run with me?”

“Ice run?” Angela repeated. “Where would we…”

Neil jerked his head toward the door.

“Oh. Sure. Love to.”

“Okay?” Angela waited until Marisol nodded at her. She kissed her cheek as she passed, then wiped off the pink lipstick she'd left there. “I'll be back in five minutes. Maybe less.”

Marisol nodded again.

“Why didn't you tell me you had a girlfriend?” The question just fell out, the second the door thudded closed.

His hands squeezed her shoulders. “I couldn't. I couldn't utter the fucking words to you, because in that moment I wanted it not to be true more than I've ever wanted anything.”

“In what moment? There have been a month’s worth of moments you could've told me you had a girlfriend, but I had to find out from the newspaper.”

His eyes fluttered closed briefly as understanding dawned. “Oh, that…that was not what it seemed. We've had that premiere planned for ages. I've hardly seen her since I met you. I'm never home, it's not like…

He stopped nattering on, since Marisol had taken a few steps back and begun waving at him like a crossing guard. She didn't want to bicker with him. What would that accomplish? Bickering with him wouldn't make him prefer her over his girlfriend, and did she even want to compete with this girl? This was all a stupid mistake.

“I don't want to do this. I don't want to bicker about it. It's all out in the open now. This was a mistake.”

“What was a mistake?”

“This.” She waved her hand between them. “You and me.”

“You don't mean that.” He was looking at her with such intensity that she had to look away. 

She took two steps away from him, stumbling over the bottle of whiskey she’d dropped on the carpet. There. That was the answer. More whiskey. She picked up the bottle and turned away from him, picking at the label. Her hands shook a little as she uncapped the bottle and tipped it to her lips.

Her unsteady hands spilled too much of the whiskey down her throat and it left her sputtering and coughing. She shuddered, wiping her sleeve across her mouth. “Hells bells. This shit is rough.”

“Can I ask you something?” Paul said gently. “If you thought I had a girlfriend, why did you show up tonight? We both knew how the night would end.”

“Oh, I see. It's all my fault now.” Her breath hitched and she fought to control it, determined not to cry in front of him. “I showed up tonight because I’m sick of being sad and I thought you would help me forget my…my everything.”

He took the bottle from her hand and put it back on the table. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms. “And did I help you forget?”

She nodded against his chest. “For a minute or two.”

His scent invaded her nose and her thoughts. She held her breath to avoid it. To keep herself from relishing it, while he rubbed small, soothing circles on her back.

“Would you like me to help you forget some more?”

What the hell was he suggesting? She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him away, stumbling backwards. “What part of you is doing the thinking right now?”

“Every part of me,” was his immediate answer.

Marisol huffed and turned her back to him.

She heard him sigh. “I know you feel it too, the connection we have. The spark between us, whatever it is, I haven’t felt this for…I don’t know when I’ve felt this."

She didn't answer. It was pointless to deny it. He knew all he had to do was touch her and she turned into a puddle of want.

“Will you come back to my room?”

His breath was warm on her neck.

She closed her eyes. “Am I crazy? Why would I do that?”

“So we can talk. Or we could get some sleep. Or we could talk all night if you want. I'll tell you anything you want to know. Or I could help you forget things…”

His lips were next to her ear. She shivered.

“Going anywhere with you right now would be a very bad idea.”

“I disagree.”

“I'm not even going to be in this country long. You're a heartache waiting to happen.”

“So are you. But I can’t help myself.”

Neither could Marisol, apparently, because when Paul reached for her hand and laced their fingers together she silently picked up her bag and let him lead her to the door.

“Is Ringo still outside?”

Paul frowned. “I didn’t see him, why?”

He opened the door. Neil and Angela were sitting in the hallway with their backs against the opposite wall, their heads together, lost in some sort of conversation that was making them both look a little starry-eyed.

“Hey!” Angela looked up and smiled. “Everything good?”

“Do we need to get you a room?” Marisol stage whispered.

“Neil, look after Angela, would you?” Paul said.

“My pleasure.”

Angela gave Marisol a little wave as Paul tugged on her hand, pulling her down the hallway.

Inside the room he took her bag from her shoulder and placed it back on the dresser. He turned to her and stretched his arms over his head, revealing his lean stomach and the trail of faint hair leading toward the open button on his jeans. She remembered he wasn’t wearing any underwear and felt a stab of desire.

She bit back a moan and looked away. “I'm so screwed,” she whispered to herself. 

Without removing her clothes, she fell onto the bed and crawled to the far side. She dragged the covers up to her chin, her back to Paul.

He reached under the blankets and gently pulled off her shoes.

“All right, love? Need anything? A glass of water? I could call down for some tea.”

“No.”

“Why did you go to Neil’s room and drink up all the Glenlivet?”

"Because that's all there was," she mumbled into the pillow.

He pulled back the covers. "Let's get you out of these clothes."

Oh my god. "No." She curled into a ball defensively. “I'm not interested in being anyone's plaything right now." 

He climbed onto the bed and scooped an arm around her, fitting his body around hers. "How about I'll be yours then?"

She groaned. "Don't be cute."

He brushed her hair aside and kissed the back of her shoulder. "Has anyone ever told you the back of your neck is perfect?"

Soft kisses on the back of her neck. There should be a law against him kissing the back of her neck. It turned her insides to mush. It almost made her forget he had a girlfriend. Almost. She had to pull it together, rally herself before he kissed her there again.

She reached a hand over her shoulder, made contact with his face and pushed him away. “You said we were going to talk,” she reminded him.

He sighed, wrapping his arm more tightly around her. “I dunno, Mari. Do you ever wonder, with all the chaos right now, and you leaving in a couple of months, that maybe this isn’t our time—”

She wriggled out of his arms and rolled over, facing him with her arms crossed over her chest. “It might've been nice to know about the girlfriend and how it 'isn't our time' BEFORE the part where we got naked and sweaty and tangled up in each other and didn't even care when we rolled out of bed and ended up on the floor."

He laughed softly. "God, I know, Mar, how amazing was that?" He rubbed his thumb slowly across her hip. "Let's do it again."

She pushed his hand away. "You must be out of your damn mind."

"Probably." He laid back on the pillow, contemplating the ceiling with a sigh. "I must be out of my mind to feel the way I do about you when I've known from the off all about our expiration date."

Marisol rolled onto her back and joined his examination of the ceiling. "We're like an open bottle of wine," she said sadly.

Paul blew out a breath. “First of all, love, I wouldn’t be here like this with you if I had made a commitment to someone else. Yes, I was seeing someone when we met, and I’m quite fond of her. I wasn’t looking for a fling with an American on holiday. My life is complicated enough.”

Her heart sank. She didn’t even want to hear any more.

"I was just going to the beach with me mate and there you were, standing there a bit sweaty with that sexy little dress clinging to your amazing legs…Jesus…” He ran a hand over his face before he continued. “…standing there with your big, hauntingly sad eyes and your slightly better than perfect breasts and your terrible American accent and your ruddy pumpkin ginger whatever it was. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since.”

"There is nothing terrible about my accent."

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Oh, but there is. It's awful. Horrible. I hear it in my nightmares.”

She stared at his perfect, strong profile, wishing for the hundredth time he wasn’t so beautiful. “Is that why you can’t sleep?”

“One of many reasons.” He sighed. “I don’t know what to do about you, Mari.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, not sure if she wanted to hear this or not.

“Well, you’re, you know, exactly my type, so at first all I could think about was getting your knickers down."

“Thank you for your honesty. I think.”

“Pleasure.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “The thing is, on my way to your knickers I discovered how smart you are, and classy and worldly but still sweet and nurturing...and I realized I never got bored when I was with you, and I started to like you, a lot."

She let out the breath she'd been holding, turned onto her side and reached for his hand. "I like you too, a lot." 

He brought her hand to his mouth and planted a soft kiss on her palm. She hadn't known until this exact moment that the palm of her hand was an erogenous zone. It definitely was.

"I kept telling myself to leave you alone. I’m not keen on hurting people and someone’s bound to get hurt. But then I’d find myself lying in bed in my hotel room thinking of nothing but you. I’d have a few drinks and reach for the phone because all I wanted was to hear your voice.”

“With my rotten accent,” she added.

“Exactly.” He rolled over and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “And here we are.”

She bit her lip. "What did you mean when you said it's not our time?"

"I said maybe. Maybe it's not our time." He moved closer until his head was on her pillow, his face only inches from hers.

"I think our story is going to take more than a couple of months to write. Do you know what I mean?”

"I'm not sure." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"In another year when nobody cares about the Beatles any more and we don't have a show every night I think you and I will figure out a way to be together."

"But you're going to bigger than Elvis."

Paul scoffed. "That's just talk. No British act has ever made it in America. America has everything, what do they need us for?"

Marisol shook her head. "I can't answer that, because I can't even describe it, but the four of you together make magic happen, and America may be big but we dig magic."

"Maybe I'll play for you in San Francisco someday."

"I bet you'd sell out The Fillmore."

"What's the capacity?"

"About a thousand, I think."

"Wouldn't that be something if we played The Fillmore."

"Mmm hmm," she said sleepily. "Lots of beautiful ghosts in that house."

"And you could show me around your San Francisco, because nobody knows who we are there." He kissed her fingertips, one by one. 

Her heart thudded. She wasn't sleepy any longer. The things he could do to her with those lips. Being with him was electrifying. All she had to do was not let her heart get involved. Simple.

”Where would you take me?” he asked.

She knew immediately. "To the top of Twin Peaks so you could see the fog on one side of the city and clear skies on the other. We'd go at sunset and watch Market Street light up all the way to the bay. We'd climb to the top of one of the peaks and feel the wind blowing in like a gale all the way from Japan."

“Japan. Perfect.” He let go of her hand and rested his fingers against her cheek, his thumb tracing her bottom lip.

"Mari. I want to be so wrapped up in you that we slide out of bed again without noticing."

He kissed her softly and she closed her eyes. It was probably a huge mistake at this point. Epic. But as his lips moved over hers and his hands moved over her body she felt something tight inside her begin to loosen and melt away, and she wanted the very same thing.

"Trust me, Mari," he whispered against her lips. "I'm not going to let you get away so easily."

*****************

Marisol awoke to the shrilling double ring of the bedside phone. She blinked open her eyes.

Beside her, Paul groaned and threw an arm over his face.

“That’s the only thing I’m not going to miss about your gloomy little island,” she said.

He cracked open a brown eye. “You’re leaving England? Wish you'd told me that before you had your way with me last night. Again and again.” His voice was husky with sleep.

“Are you going to answer it?”

“Fook no.”

“What if it’s Angela?”

He blew out a breath. “Bloody hell.” He fumbled for the receiver and answered in a sing-song falsetto voice, “Hellooooo?” A brief pause and he switched to his own voice. “No, it’s Paul. Hang on.”

“Why did he answer the phone that way?” Angela asked when Marisol was on the line.

She yawned. “I don’t know, he probably thinks it’s a fan or something.”

“I have a 2:00 I really shouldn’t miss, can you be ready soon?”

“I’ll meet you in the hallway in twenty.”

She handed Paul the receiver and he let it dangle to the carpet beside the bed. Then he pulled her into his arms. "Don't leave."

“Angela has a class.” She rested her cheek against his chest, skimming a hand over his smooth, warm skin.

He massaged her neck with one hand, palming her breast with the other. She felt herself immediately responding to his touch, wishing they had more time. "You must stay. We haven't even tried the lotus blossom yet."

"Funny you should say that. I was just remembering the strangest dream. I was in bed with Paul McCartney."

He chuckled, the sound low and vibrating in her ear. "How was it?"

"I don't know. It was just getting good when the phone rang. Don't you hate that?" She slung a leg over his and starting climbing out of bed. He pulled her back down on top of him.

"This is your lucky day, love. You can wake up in the middle of a sexy dream and still find out how it ends."

He ran his hands down her sides and cupped her bottom, aroused and pressing against her. "Stay with me."

She moaned. He smelled so male and intoxicating and felt so warm and...ready. “I really have to go.” 

She extricated herself with reluctance, despite his groans of protest. The room was chilly and she immediately missed his warmth. Feeling his eyes watching her every move, she grabbed her clothes from last night and her toiletry bag and went into the bathroom. 

No shower. Typical English hotel bathroom. While the tub filled she scraped her hair into a pony tail and wrapped a band around it. She eased underneath the hot water, sighing as her muscles relaxed. There were new bruises on various parts of her body and she smiled to herself, remembering how she'd gotten some of them and wondering at the rest. 

It wasn't hard to figure out where she'd gotten this dull headache, she thought, recalling the sudden taste for whiskey she'd developed last night. She brought a hand to her temple, trying to rub the pain away. What a night. Sleeping with Paul had been like being in bed with an octopus. Every time she moved a muscle, tentacle-like arms and legs chased her across the bed, as if in his sleep he needed to reassure himself he wasn't alone. She had fallen asleep in his arms and woken up in a different position, facing a different way, with his arms still wrapped around her. 

Knowing Angela was waiting, she washed quickly and was drying off in front of the mirror when she saw the red marks on her neck. Nice. She'd have to borrow a scarf from Angela before going home. She was dressed, toothbrush in hand, when she looked in the mirror to see Paul yawning behind her. “Oh, hey, hope you don’t mind me brushing my teeth in your recording studio.”

He stood beside her in his pajama bottoms, shirtless, looking impossibly sexy with his unshaven chin and sleepy eyes. He found his toothbrush in a small toiletry bag on the counter. "Where's my toothpaste?"

"Here, have mine.”

“How are you feeling this morning, Glenlivet girl?” he asked, smiling.

“Fine. Goodness. It’s not like I can’t handle a little whiskey.”

“If you say so.”

“My parents gave me wine with water from the time I was five, for heaven’s sake.” She pulled out the hairband and ran a brush through her hair, wincing at the tangles. "Besides, I'm tough. My dad always used to slap me on the back so hard I almost fell over and say, 'You're a Hemingway, you're tough.'"

"The more you tell me about your father, the happier I am he's in California."

She smiled wanly. "He's in Idaho right now, actually."

"What's he doing there?" He said around the toothbrush.

"I don't know, he goes off and hides, mostly from my mother.”

"Ain't love grand?" Paul said.

He rinsed his toothbrush and examined himself in the mirror, rubbing the stubble on his jaw.

"Think I should grow a beard?"

"Absolutely. The long hair isn't causing nearly enough of a furor."

He filled two glasses with water from the tap and offered her one. She took a sip while he guzzled his and slammed the glass on the counter. "H2Oh that is good!" he announced.

She smiled as she collected her things and stepped out of the bathroom. "Someone's in a good mood this morning."

"Someone got lucky last night." From the doorway he watched her stuffing her belongings into her overnight bag. “What are you going to do today?”

“Probably stop by Margo’s flat in London and get my toddler fix. What about you?”

"I don’t know, go back to sleep maybe. Or finish one of those songs, or start another one. Maybe John and I will write a new car today, you never know."

"You need to write yourself a driver’s license first."

At the door she stopped and looked up at him. His gaze lingered on the bruises on her neck and he brushed his fingers lightly over them.

"Thanks for the memories," she said wryly.

He smiled at her fondly. "You asked me again and again to bite you. So I happily obliged."

She pulled her hair over her shoulders to the front, trying to hide the red marks he'd left on her skin. “Sounds like oral aggression to me. And that’s not exactly how I remember it."

He arched a brow. "Well, this was after you developed such a fondness for Scotch."

"Uh huh. What are you saying?"

His hands skimmed her sides. "I'm saying when can you come to another show?" His eyes crinkled in a smile. "I want to make sure Neil orders enough scotch."

She tried not to smile. "That's really funny, Paul. I only drank because the phone rang and you--"

He covered her mouth with his in a long, lingering kiss, gently brushing her lips with his tongue, warm and insistent. She was limp when he pulled back, examining her. "Let's not have a row. You know I'm mad about you.”

“Do I?”

His expression softened. “Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you?"

She thought a moment. "That I was defacing your van?"

He laughed. "No, this was after you wrote on my van. When you told me your name, I said it over three times in my head. Marisol. Marisol. Marisol. That is the name of the next girl I fall in love with."

If that was a line, she didn't care. He was creating scenarios and memories of the two of them that she would replay the next time she was gripped with melancholy. Tonight she would lie alone in bed and remember every glance, every touch, every word, every kiss. Mr. Darcy or not, if she could bottle Paul up she could market him as the best heartache remedy ever developed. 

He rested his chin on her head. "If only you weren't flying away from me."

“I’m not flying anywhere for a while," she said softly.

“Perhaps by then I’ll convince you not to leave at all.”

She tilted her head back to look at him. “Perhaps I’ll bring you back home with me like a big souvenir of England." 

He smiled at that, adorably, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and brought her lips to his.

 

****************

"Hey. Angela's almost ready." Neil stood in the doorway, hair mussed, still wearing his corduroy pants and rumpled shirt from last night. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"I'm never drinking again."

Neil laughed. "Come on in." He held open the door, smiling.

"You're in a decidedly less surly mood this morning. Anyone in particular I should thank for that?"

"Good morning to you too, Mar."

Angela stepped out of the bathroom, fresh and glowing in a bright pink blouse and matching slender pants. "Morning, Sunshine!"

"Wow. Strip poker does wonders for both of you. Maybe you could give strip poker lessons." Marisol said.

Angela giggled. Marisol raised her eyebrows. Did Angela just giggle? 

"Hey, Mari." Angela opened the door. "I'll be ready in two shakes. I'll meet you at the lift?"

"Oh. Right. The elevator." Marisol wandered into the hallway, shaking her head. Angela and Neil. Who'd have thought?

Angela came bouncing down the hall a few minutes later. Her smile was radiant.

"Hello? Were you just making out with the person whose favorite thing used to be catching frogs and throwing them at me?" Marisol asked.

"What a night. I needed that."

"You didn't." Marisol said as the elevator doors opened.

"Oh but I did," Angela said, leaning against the far wall of the lift and sighing happily. "Scandalous unmarried snuggling. All night long. Also, I've asked him to come by my place for dinner next week. With you and Paul of course."

"Um, I guess..

Angela grinned. “So tell me, Dolly, you and Paul, what was it like?”

The elevator door opened and Angela continued her line of questioning as if there weren’t two dozen people standing around, most of them looking up as Angela and Marisol strolled through the lobby with their overnight bags.

“Let me guess. Straight missionary with loads of soft focus eye contact, and he probably whispered what sounded like song lyrics in your ear all night long.”

“Ssshhh!” Marisol hissed. When they got outside the lobby she laughed to herself. “You’re such an ass,” she said to Angela.

“You hate it when I’m right, don’t you?”

“You and Neil. I can’t even,” Marisol said, changing the subject.

Angela sighed happily. “Let's do this again, shall we?”


	13. Tomorrow May Rain

Marisol was dozing on the couch in the sitting room under a crocheted afghan when the phone rang. Startled into semi-wakefulness, she fumbled for the phone and knocked the receiver to the floor. She reeled in the cord and dragged the receiver to her ear. "Hello," she mumbled sleepily.

"I need you," Paul said, his voice raspy. "I'm ill. My throat is dodgy and my lungs hurt. I need you to take off all your clothes and put on your yellow mac because it's raining. And maybe some boots. High heels. Drive to Taunton. King's Hotel, room 216. I need to slide my hands under your mac and feel your luscious, warm, sweet body. And bring your tea kettle. And vitamins."

"Who is this again?"

There was a pause. "It's the man you most want to shag in all of Britain."

"Oh, hi Winston Churchill."

There was a bark of laughter followed by a groan and a raspy cough. "Ow, it hurts to laugh. Why do you hate my body and my lungs so much?"

"Still Winston."

"Come here," Paul said, his gravelly voice sounding even more sexy than usual.

"It's a very tempting offer." Marisol stretched carefully, rubbing the kink in her neck. "I'm sorry you're sick. What happened?"

"You were too much for me. I'm old."

"You are old but you probably have a few good years left."

"When can I see you again? We don't have much time, given my age."

"I'm flying today, if the weather clears up. I'll tilt my wings to you. Where are you again?"

"Taunton."

"I don't even know what you're saying."

"It's in Somerset. They've a lovely monastery, from the 10th century."

"Good lord. It sounded like you said the 10th century."

"We've got history, love. It's not like where you're from, where the oldest building is probably a two hundred year old wooden house."

"In Somerset," she mused. "You do get around."

There was a muffled sound followed by a spurt of coughing on Paul's end of the phone. "Cor," he said at last. "I feel like shite and it's monkey balls in here. It must be abar minus 40. Bloody radiator."

She'd no idea what monkey balls meant but assumed it was probably preferable to not be monkey balls. "Do you think Brian should phone a doctor?"

"No." He coughed into the receiver and moaned.

She winced, thinking how raw his voice sounded and knowing he couldn't go home and recover in his own bed.

"If you won't come be my nurse, I'll have to recuperate on my own. You know Angela is having us for dinner sometime this week. She and our Neil have a thing apparently."

"Really? I hadn't noticed." Marisol sighed, remembering how Angela had talked nonstop about Neil all the way back to London.

Paul coughed again and it sounded as if he dropped the phone. After a few seconds of rustling he was back on the line. "Ta ra love, I will see you soon."

Marisol replaced the receiver and padded upstairs to her bedroom. She lay in bed and watched the sun rise, torn between wanting to be with Paul and knowing they needed to take things slow. Making him the center of her world was the last thing she should do right now.

 

***************

 

Letter from Paul, late September:

_HOW I SPENT MY WEEKEND_

_Wake up. Think of you. Eat. Dream. Think of you._

_Go to work. Listen to everyone talking. Think of you. Play music. Sing some songs. Run from fans. Drive a hundred kilometers farther from you. Count the stars. Smoke a few. Think of you._

_New hotel. Bathe. Eat. Try to sleep. Think of you. Watch Telly. Drink Scotch. Think of you. Drink more Scotch. Sleep._

_Wake up. Think of you. Eat. Smoke. Tune my guitar. Think about writing a song. Write to you instead._

_Repeat chorus, fade to end._

_xxx Paul xxx_

 

***************

 

Angela called later in the week, practically bursting with excitement. "Have you been to the Cotswolds?"

Marisol admitted she had not.

"Brilliant!" Angela gushed. "The boys have some time off, and Neil is hiring a cabin cruiser for a couple of days. Paul is coming, and YOU of course! We're going camping on the Thames!"

In seconds Marisol was as excited as Angela. She flew about her room, throwing casual clothes and cosmetics into an overnight bag. She had barely an hour to get to the station for the next train to London.

On the train she watched the scenery rolling by and thought about Paul. Whether he was dating lots of girls she couldn’t say, but he called her every night from a different town and they talked for hours. In person and on the phone, Paul showed a genuine interest in her, asking her questions, wanting to know her thoughts, remembering tiny details of things she told him. He openly introduced her to his friends and bandmates. He was invested in her. By the time she got into the city, Marisol had made up her mind. She would enjoy the next few months with Paul and stop thinking about what would happen after that. Keeping it light and fun. That was all she was ready for anyway.

Angela met her at the train station, and they spent several hours tossing around ideas and shopping for meals they could cook in a boat's tiny galley. After a quick dinner of pub food, they went back to Angela's flat and drank wine and watched television until the national channel signed off. Then they checked the contents of their bags once more and climbed in Angela's double bed, giggling and whispering, too excited about their trip to sleep. A mini-break, Angela called it. Marisol could hardly wait for morning to come. 

 

The weekend started blissfully with a light, soft breeze and stretches of sunny skies. Neil and Paul happily steered the boat while Angela and Marisol reclined on the deck and admired the views. They floated down a narrow stretch of the Thames, past rolling Cotswolds hills dotted with sheep, scattered farms and woodlands, through idyllic villages where all the buildings seemed to be made of the same warm, honey colored stone, past ancient Saxon churches with their square towers that looked like giant chess pieces.

Along the way they waited in line at a series of locks, queuing with happy little families of pale, pink-cheeked British children with wind chapped knees. Paul went unrecognizable in his sunglasses with his hair stuffed under a silly captain’s hat. He had recovered from his cold but still sipped tea from a thermos for most of the morning. He carried his new Leica camera everywhere, and they took pictures of the scenery and of each other piloting the boat and posing together. For one photograph, he pulled Marisol onto his lap, placed his skipper’s cap on her head and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“There's the money shot,” Angela teased. "I'll have a print of that one for Christmas."

“My pleasure," Paul said, giving Marisol’s cheek another kiss.

Wordlessly, Marisol returned Paul's hat and took the camera from Angela, focusing the lens on an old stone bridge just up ahead. She would be gone weeks before Christmas. She didn't even want to think about how hard it was going to be to say goodbye to Angela, to Neil, and especially to Paul. Every time she saw him she grew fonder of him. He sparkled with intelligence and wit and made every day an adventure. Hell, every single conversation was an adventure. He was going to be impossible to forget.

By mid-afternoon they reached a gastro pub charmingly called the Trout at Tadpole Bridge, particularly well known for its fresh seafood, according to Angela. They tied up the boat and strolled through the pub gardens. Neil and Angela went inside to order food while Paul and Marisol sat in the garden, watching the dark and cloudy river roll by.

Paul showed her a spot where tourists had carved their names on the wooden table. "These American kids come over for a week's holiday and graffiti their names everywhere and then leave. When I go to America I'm going to carve my name into everything I see." He smiled at her. "Starting with your heart." With his left index finger he traced P-A-U-L across her left breast.

She took his hand away, holding onto his fingers, and kissed him on the cheek. "You already have, silly."

He started to say something else but turned away sharply to cough into the crook of his arm.

Neil and Angela returned with plates of Dover sole, fresh calamari, and mushrooms with melted goat cheese which they ate in the garden, drinking pints of ale until the sun began to sink behind the hills.

Back at the boat, they drifted down the river for a lazy few hours before tying up in a quiet bend under a canopy of trees. The river was eerily serene, surrounded by weeping willow trees perfectly reflected in the glass-like stillness of the water. They reclined on cushions on the deck, singing and humming along while Paul played the guitar, sharing jokes and pints of ale until a soft rainy drizzle chased them into their cramped berths.

The gentle rocking of the boat and the soft patter of the rain made for a romantic end to the day, and Paul and Marisol fell onto their tiny double bed fully clothed, eager to be in each other's arms again. Paul stretched out beside her and kissed her softly, his lips like warm honey. Then their lips pressed deeply together, her tongue sliding into the warmth of his mouth. A low moan came from his throat, and his hand slid under her blouse, warm on her back. She reached between them and slipped her hand under the waistband of his jeans, finding the silky smooth hardness of him, loving the way he felt in her palm. Her body knew what he felt like now and missed him. It seemed like they couldn't get close enough to each other, searching for something more to touch.

The rain turned into a downpour. There was a sudden boom of thunder that shook the boat, followed by a series of thumps and Angela shouting. Next came a rapid knock at their door and Neil calling out "Is everyone decent?" before slamming into their cabin.

"What the bloody hell, Nell?" Paul said.

Angela pushed past Neil into the tiny space. "It's raining in our bed, shift over."

"You cannot be serious," Paul said.

"Oh but I am." Angela was already on the bed with them. "It rained on my forehead. Feel."

"I can feel a lot more than your forehead, love. You're lying on top of me," Paul said, not sounding all that unhappy about it.

They somehow made room for Neil and Angela, the four of them barely fitting in the triangular shaped double bed. There was mild complaining and shoving from Neil and Paul and giggling from Marisol and Angela until they found passably comfortable positions.

"This is cozy," Marisol said. She had maybe six inches of mattress between Paul at her back and the curved wall of the cabin.

Paul pulled her closer. She could feel him, hard and throbbing against her backside. "Forced into spooning, dead arm and awkward biggie and no payoff in sight," he complained.

"Way more than I needed to know," Angela said.

"I knew you didn't like spooning," Marisol said.

"I like the payoff," said Paul.

"You're probably lying there the whole time thinking how can I get my arm out from under her head without waking her so I can go play the guitar."

Paul sat up suddenly. "Neil, where's my guitar?"

"I haven't been watching your guitar tonight," Neil said.

"Is the galley leaking too?"

"How the bloody hell do I know?"

"Jesus Christ." Paul climbed over Neil and Angela, grumbling and cursing as he slid on the wet floor on the way to the galley.

"I hope everyone knows how to swim," Marisol said morosely.

Angela laughed. "I can see the headlines tomorrow, Beatle and entourage missing at sea, presumed lost."

"Can you swim, Neil?" Marisol asked.

"Of course I can swim, I grew up on the Mersey."

Paul came back with the guitar case. He tried to stow it in the small wooden overhead rack and found it full of their clothes and other items they thought necessary for a one night voyage. He finally wedged it at the bottom of the bed near their feet.

"For fuck's sake," Neil said as Paul climbed back over them.

"In my dreams of sleeping on a yacht with a rock and roll band it was never quite like this," Angela said, wriggling until she found a comfortable position.

The heavens opened, the rain pounding to the accompaniment of rolling thunder. They huddled in the dark making each other laugh until the storm finally slackened and they managed to fall asleep to the soothing sound of raindrops and the gentle rocking of the boat.

 

They awoke early with stiff muscles and aching joints, everyone feeling cold and damp, ravenous, and a little cross. Between Neil's snoring and Paul's coughing, no one got much sleep.

The weather had turned blustery and cold overnight. After a breakfast of tea and fresh fruit and croissants, Neil and Paul untied the boat and pulled out of the cove, blowing into their hands and stamping their feet in the chilly morning air as they took turns playing skipper. Marisol wiped down the deck cushions with the last dry towel, then huddled under a moldy smelling wool blanket with Angela and watched the scenery slowly rolling by.

Paul pointed out a pillbox from WWII on the riverbank. "To keep the Germans from floating up the Thames. This river, Mari, it's liquid history."

Marisol leaned over the side of the boat and squeezed the water from a soaked towel. "Does this boat go any faster?"

In the cockpit, Paul lit a cigarette and studied her. "Bored of us already, love?"

"I wouldn't mind getting off this moldy boat and going somewhere dry, to be honest," Angela said.

Marisol looked up with interest. "Could we?"

"We're clearly not boating with Rover Scouts, Neil," Paul said.

 

Four hours later they were back in London, sneaking into a dark movie theatre just after the picture had started. It was an arty, existential film based on a Kafka novel, chosen by Paul.

They discussed the film afterwards on the way to Angela's flat. Paul seemed fascinated with the cinematography and the symbolism and wanted to have an in-depth discussion about the meaning of camera angles, but Marisol thought it was confusing and absurd. Angela and Neil made goo-goo eyes at each other in the front seat and didn't seem to care either way.

They made a pot of spaghetti and a lettuce salad, and after dinner they drank tequila shots and played Never Have I. Marisol was stunned to realize she was the only one of the four of them who had ever shot a rifle. Paul began calling her Tex. It turned out Paul was the only one who admitted to having worn the opposite sex's knickers, which he blamed on the scarcity of laundry facilities in Hamburg.

That led to a story about John standing on the streets of Hamburg in the dead of winter in nothing but sandals and socks, white briefs and a hat, reading the newspaper. Paul claimed to have photographs to prove it.

A couple of pints of ale later, Neil took Paul and Marisol to Paul's flat in Mayfair. He shared it with George and Ringo, but they had both gone home to Liverpool for the weekend, and the flat was empty and quiet. The living room looked almost institutional, with plain white walls and beige carpeting, a sofa and two chairs upholstered in textured woven fabrics. Built-in shelves along one wall were covered with stacks of fan mail and full ash trays. In another corner empty record sleeves were scattered on the floor around the large hifi.

While Paul busied himself at the hifi, Marisol carried a couple of ash trays into the kitchen and emptied them into a full trash can. She poured herself a glass of water from the kitchen faucet and out of curiosity opened the small refrigerator. All of the shelves were empty but for a stick of butter and a jar of cocktail sauce. She opened a cabinet. Two cans of stewed steak with gravy and a tin of tea. The chequerboard vinyl kitchen floor was kind of atrocious, but other than that it was a nice clean kitchen, probably rarely used.

Back in the living room, Paul was sitting on the carpet listening to the hifi. Marisol sat beside him and he handed her an LP cover.  _Live_ _at_ _the_ _Apollo_  by James Brown.

"Greatest intro ever. You like this?" he asked, beating out a rhythm with his hands on his knees.

"Sure. He's great. It sounds like he's being backed up by a brass band."

Paul stopped drumming. "A brass band?" he said, incredulous. "A brass band? It's a horn section, Mari. Fucking hell."

"Are you cross from our leaky boat ride through the rain forest?"

"Why should I be cross? You mean because I spent the night fully clothed, sandwiched between two hot women, and listened to Neil snore all night?"

"Or because you were sick."

"Sshh, pay attention for a tick, Mari. This is the live recording by which all other live recordings will be judged. I've played this so much I've almost worn out the grooves."

They listened for a few minutes, with Paul pointing out his favorite parts. "Brown summing up the meaning of life: don't just say 'ahh,' say 'OOOWWWWWW! and I believe my work will be done."

Marisol stretched out on the carpet, watching Paul absorbed in the music. "Listen to the audience," he said. "He has them in the palm of his hand."

His eyes were distant as he listened, his fingers alternately tapping out rhythms and shaping chords. She wondered what he was listening for. Who knew what went on in that brain of his. He would probably listen to James Brown for twenty minutes and go back in his bathroom and write a hit song.

 

"How did you end up with the smallest bedroom?" Marisol asked a few minutes later, when Paul showed her his tiny room at the back of the flat.

"I dunno, I was busy the day we moved in and I reckon I was the last one to choose." He sighed. "I hate this place. It doesn't feel like home at all. There aren't even any pictures on the walls."

"You have to hang them yourself," Marisol explained.

"I don't have time for that crap."

There was a portable Dansette record player on the dresser in his room and another stack of albums, and a smaller stack of books beside the double bed. Marisol immediately went to the books. A recent James Bond, a John Paul Sartre,  _The Stranger_ by Albert Camus.

"John gave me the Sartre, told me to expand my Scouser mind."

"So this is how a Beatle lives." Marisol sat on the end of the bed and gave it a bounce.

"It needs a feminine touch. Do you fancy moving in?"

She laughed. "No, but you better careful with that question. Someone's going to say yes one day."

Paul sat beside her. "Somehow I knew there wasn't the remotest chance of you saying yes." He reached up, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Are you still making up your mind about me?"

"I made up my mind about you in the first ten minutes. But I'm still trying to talk myself out of it."

He leaned in, looking at her eyes so closely, as if searching for a stray eyelash. Or stealing her thoughts. “If I could whisper into your heart I would tell you not to worry, you’re in good hands,” he whispered.

Her heart thumped wildly. She was powerless to resist him when he looked at her this way. She felt almost felt drugged, waiting for him to kiss her.

Instead, he suddenly bent over, reached under the bed and pulled out a shoebox full of candid photographs. He rifled through them until he found what he was looking for, a series of black and white snapshots of John Lennon in his underwear on the streets of Hamburg.

The ridiculous sight made her smile. She barely knew John and already she loved him for his wit and his devil-may-care, love-me-or-leave-me attitude about life. Next he pulled out a set of pictures taken during a trip with John to Paris: the two of them on a train wearing bowler hats, drinking wine in a cafe, posing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Then he showed her an early photograph of five band members, holding guitars with jaunty familiarity, leaning against a train in an amusement park.

"Can you tell which one is me?"

Marisol smiled. "Of course, Lefty." She studied the black and white photograph. The slicked-back hair, the pointed shoes, the defiant, determined attitudes, vulnerable, exhausted eyes. "This is an amazing picture. Who is the fifth Beatle?"

"That was pre-Ringo." He pointed out Pete and Stu, then rummaged around in the box until he found a color snapshot and showed it to her. It was a younger Paul sitting on a stone bench in front of the ocean in a shirt and swim trunks next to a tiny, stunning blonde, their bare legs pressed together, somber looks on their faces, not a hint of a smile. "This is Astrid."

"Wow. Is she an ex-girlfriend?"

"She was my mate Stu's fiancee. She took that picture you're holding."

"She's very pretty."

"You remind me of her, since the first day I met you. You have more in common with her than you know. Maybe I'll introduce you someday." He stacked all the photographs back in the shoebox and shoved it underneath the bed. He turned and looked at her for a long minute.

"What now?" Marisol asked. _Why_ _aren't_ _you_ _kissing_ _me_? was what she wanted to ask.

"We haven't played guitar in a while," Paul said, standing up.

"Tremendous idea."

He touched the guitar leaning against the wall, then seemed to change his mind. "Be right back."

He left the room and came back with a Gibson acoustic guitar. "I can't teach you anything on a left-handed one," he explained. "This one's George's." He put the guitar across her lap and arranged himself on the bed behind her, stretching his legs around hers, bringing with him warmth and the scent of the outdoors. Marisol leaned against his chest and watched while he arranged the fingers of her left hand on the frets. "This is G," he told her. "Get the very tips of your fingers as close to the fret as possible. Bend all three knuckles." Next he showed her how to use her right hand to strum.

Marisol strummed a muddy sounding chord.

Paul changed the position of her fret hand slightly. "Don't let your fingers touch the string below and mute it."

Her second try sounded a bit cleaner. "G. Which stands for Golly this is fun," she said.

"This is C. Easy one." Paul moved her fingers into a new shape.

Strum. "C as in Can't think of anything I'd rather be doing right now."

He chuckled directly in her ear and she shivered.

"Now F. Three chords and the truth, and you have a song." He rearranged her fingers and waited. "F is for...?" he prompted.

Marisol laughed. "I think you know." She relaxed her hands over the strings. "The thing is, you play with such soul, such love, you leave a piece of yourself in your songs. That's something you can't teach."

He pushed himself away from her and stood up, stretching. "I'm not really trying to teach you. I just like the way you look with a guitar in your hands." He picked up the camera from his dresser and fiddled with it for a minute before lifting his head and looking in her eyes. "It reminds me of a not too distant morning when your hands were doing something else."

His smile made her catch her breath. He knelt on the floor in front of her and photographed her sitting cross-legged on the bed holding George's guitar.

When he stood up, his eyes dropped to her mouth, lingering there. Making sure she noticed. "Do you know what I'm going to do next?"

Mutely, she shook her head.

"I'm going to kiss every lovely freckle on your lovely body. And then, to make up for last night, I'm going to do it again."

"Is that a promise?" Her voice was a whisper.

He set the camera on the dresser and stood between her legs. "It's reality."

Marisol propped the guitar against the foot of the bed and stood, drawn to him like a magnet to steel, her pulse a pounding drum. As soon as her weight shifted from the bed the guitar clunked onto the wooden floor with a twang. Paul winced at the sound, but managed to shake it off. Then her mouth was on his, and she was nibbling on his lower lip, something she'd wanted to do from almost the second minute she saw him.

Slowly, his hands slid down her body to her hips and he pulled her tight against him. She wrapped an arm around his neck, her fingers curling in his silky hair. Their kisses became more urgent, their breathing more ragged. With her other hand on his chest she could feel his heart pounding, or maybe it was hers, who could tell?

Without taking his lips from hers, he reached behind for the bedroom door and swung it closed.

She pulled away, just barely. "Why did you close the door?"

"I don't know. Who knows." His voice was husky. "I've hardly had a coherent thought in my head since a certain little blonde flew in from California about six weeks ago."

His lips landed on her neck, and she groaned a response, and then they were stumbling over George's guitar and fumbling with clothes, frantic to be lost in each other again.

"Mari," he whispered against her parted lips. "I can't get enough of you."

He lifted his head, needing to look at her. They locked eyes, and the bed, the room, the flat, the whole night was theirs alone.


	14. Penny Lane

September passed, the weather cooled, the leaves colored, and Marisol found herself more and more enchanted with Paul.

They saw each other whenever his schedule permitted.

They went shopping with Angela and Neil in quiet boutiques on the outskirts of London where no one expected to see a Beatle. Sometimes Paul went unnoticed, but when he was recognized, he good-naturedly signed a few autographs before dashing to the car waiting at the curb and they sped away before he drew a crowd.

They had a roast chicken dinner with Marisol's grandmother and Mrs. Aspinall and strolled through the countryside, kicking leaves, watching wildlife and playing catch with the dogs.

They watched a previously recorded Beatles television special at Margo’s London flat, popped popcorn, uncorked a bottle of Chianti and snuggled under a down comforter on a chaise lounge on the balcony, falling asleep to the sound of London traffic four stories below.

When she wasn’t with Paul, Marisol stayed busy with her grandmother in Sussex and the twins in London. At least one afternoon a week, when the weather was agreeable and her brother-in-law could get away, Marisol met Nick at the air field where he kept his bright yellow Piper Cub with the lightning bolt painted near the nose. Nick was passionate about flying and a patient, inspiring instructor. She was more comfortable in the cockpit now and knew it wasn’t a passing fancy but a passion. She had purchased a log book and planned to continue amassing hours and knowledge until she got her flying license.

One cool, bright morning in early October, Paul asked her to come to another concert a few hours away. Marisol arrived at his hotel just before noon, made her way through a lobby crowded with young girls and asked at the front desk to be connected to Neil. He was down in five minutes.

“How was your drive?” Neil asked, kissing her on the cheek.

“It was lovely. I did some sightseeing on the way in. Beautiful countryside.”

Neil led her into the lift and pushed the button for the third floor. Before the doors slid closed, a shapely brunette in a tight red wool dress with a plunging neckline rushed inside. Neil nodded perfunctorily and reached around her to push the Door Close button.

“Pardon me, is your name Neil?”

"That's right," Neil answered with an impersonal nod.

The girl ran a shaky hand through her dark curls and reached for his arm. “I’m Lola. You remember me, don’t you?” she said in a soft, Southern English accent.

“Sorry, afraid not.” Neil appeared to be fascinated with the overhead floor indicator. Marisol found herself mesmerized by the perfectly manicured red nails on the fingers gripping Neil’s arm.

“Please. I need to see Paul. We were together in Bournemouth. He will want to see me.”

Marisol felt her heart drop. She peered around Neil's shoulder and stole a glance at the girl’s face. Early  twenties, pretty with full lips and big, dark, determined eyes.

Neil sighed, still not looking at the girl. “I'm afraid the boys are asleep and have asked not to be disturbed.”

“Then where is SHE going?” the girl demanded, glaring at Marisol.

Taking a quick step back, Marisol lowered her eyes and studied the Marks & Spencer shopping bag clutched in her hands.

The elevator door hissed open on the third floor. A hotel security guard in a black suit stood waiting, walkie talkie in hand. Neil ushered Marisol quickly into the corridor, but not before the girl thrust an envelope into his hand. “Please, Neil. I need you to give this to Paul straightaway.”

“Holy hell. Does that happen often?” Marisol asked when the elevator doors had closed.

Neil stared straight ahead as they walked down the hallway. “Oh, you know. Girls go potty sometimes.”

“I’ll bet you could write a bestseller with everything you’ve seen on the road the past year,” she mused.

Neil's voice sounded shocked. “Never.”

Marisol studied his face as he rapped on a wooden door at the end of the hall, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Hello Beauty!” Paul said, smiling as he threw open the door. He nodded at Neil. “Thanks, mate.”

“Five o’clock soundcheck,” Neil said, turning to go.

“Wait!” Marisol reached out to keep the door from swinging shut. “Aren't you going to give him the letter?” Neil gave her a look she couldn't fathom before reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and handing the envelope to Paul.

“What’s this?” Paul asked as the door thudded behind them.

“There was a girl in the elevator named Lola who said she knew you.” She watched his face carefully as he tore open the envelope. His brow furrowed as he unfolded a blue sheet of stationery and glanced at it briefly. “I don’t know anyone named Lola,” he said, crumpling the letter into a ball and tossing in the trash can beside the dresser.

Marisol stared at the trash can a moment, trying to quell her curiosity. From what Neil had said, was it possible the girl was delusional? She sighed, glancing around the small room. There was a double bed with a rumpled white coverlet. The walls were covered with busy floral wallpaper. A suitcase was open on the dresser beneath a small mirror. A record player and a stack of records and a pile of fan mail on a table in the corner. A guitar case and the ever present briefcase beside the table. A full ashtray and a glass half full of what looked like watered down Scotch on the nightstand. Boots and socks littered the stained carpet. “It smells like an orgy in here,” she remarked.

“That’s strange, since the orgy was in John’s room, as usual.”

Paul took the shopping bag and a large black umbrella from her hands and pitched them onto the bed. “In the middle of the back of beyond in the English countryside, sometimes one must make do with rooms that reek of other peoples' orgies.” He reached for her. “I know it’s not the Dorchester, but I’m terribly glad you’re here.” She felt a warm whisper of breath and their lips met. “I’ve missed you,” he said into her lips.

He tightened his arms around her, brushing his lips back and forth before closing his mouth on hers. She felt her knees growing weak. Then she thought of the desperate-eyed girl in the elevator and broke the kiss and wriggled out of his arms.

“I’ve heard Bournemouth smells nice. Have you been there recently?” She tried to make her voice sound as though everything inside her wasn’t on tenterhooks awaiting his response.

Paul laughed softly. “Yes, Detective Inspector Hemingway. It smells quite nice. I was there in mid-August, around a fortnight before a certain little American turned up and ruined me for any other...smells.”

“Perfect answer. That will conclude my investigation, Mr. McCartney. You're free to go.” Smiling, she crossed to the window and pulled back a curtain. A group of twenty or so girls stood on the sidewalk three stories below. As she watched, several of them pointed up at the window. She let the curtain fall with a sigh. “I was thinking… it’s beautiful outside. When was the last time you were out in the sun?”

He sank against the wall and raked a hand through his hair. “What sun?”

“That’s what I thought.” She grabbed the shopping bag off the bed. “I’m busting you out of here.”

“Great idea, love. Have you brought the rest of the Metropolitan Police with you in that carrier bag?”

Marisol turned the shopping bag upside down and let the contents fall in a pile on the rumpled bed. She shook out a tweed coat, several sizes too big for Paul. “No, but there’s this,” she said, handing it to him. Out of the pile of clothes on the bed she fished out a short grey wig and matching mustache, a pair of round wire rimmed spectacles and a bowler hat. “Let’s get out of here, Gramps.”

She donned her own grey wig, dark sunglasses, long wool skirt, cardigan sweater and low black sensible shoes. They stood giggling at their reflections in the full length bathroom mirror for a few moments.

“Cor, look at us. I’ve gotta show John.”

Marisol wrapped a long knitted scarf around Paul’s neck and grabbed the umbrella. “Here’s your cane, best I could do.”

Paul tucked a package of cigarettes and a book of matches into the pocket of his coat and reached for his guitar case.

"You can't take a guitar through a lobby full of girls."

"Can you carry it then?"

"No, it's a dead give away."

He reluctantly propped the guitar against the wall and shuffled to the door, already in character.

Marisol stood out of sight against the wall holding one of her grandmother’s old pocketbooks with both hands as Paul pounded on John’s door. And pounded again.

John threw open the door. The radio in his room played _Twistin’ the Night Away_. “What in god’s name is it?” he demanded.

“Oi, Artful Dodger, turn off that blasted noise or I’ll kick yer bottle and glass.” Paul’s voice was gravelly and the accent was cockney or something else Marisol had never heard before. He hunched over his umbrella and shuffled across the threshold. Marisol covered her mouth with a gloved hand and tried not to laugh.

“What? Listen here, old man…”

Paul prodded a finger at John’s chest, pushing his way into the room. “And cut that wig, Son, you look like a poof. I fought the war for the likes of you.”

“What are ya doin’ barging in me room? Piss off or I’ll have the coppers on you, I don’t care if you are an old man!”

Paul shook the umbrella in front of him. “I won’t have ye upsetting me trouble and strife with that language.” He turned slowly and pulled Marisol, stumbling, into the room. He looked at her tenderly. “Forty years on and we’re still shagging twice a day and thrice on Sundays.” He changed to his normal voice. “A tenner says you can’t top that, you plonker.”

Openmouthed, John’s eyes darted from Paul to Marisol, his face slowly registering recognition. He cuffed Paul’s shoulder roughly. “Sod off, you bloody arse,”

Paul hooted with laughter and they traded punches. “Eh up! It worked. We’re off then.”

“Wait.. where are ya goin’?”

Paul straightened his scarf. “To a chippy, for start. I could murder a plate of cod right now.”

“Oi, ‘ave you gone right off your nut? You’re wearing yer Chelsea boots, for cryin’ out loud.”

Paul wagged a finger at him. “I fooled me best mate, enough said? I wager we can fool a couple dozen birds.”

“Bring me a fish finger butty, you lucky git,” John yelled as they headed for the lift.

***************

Wigs, glasses and hats were left in the car. They spread a blanket on a hill above a canal just outside of town, a paper of fish and chips open between them, drinking from bottles of fizzy pop. The hills gently sloped down on the tranquil countryside dotted with thatched cottages and fields of cattle. The air smelled earthy and damp from last night’s rain. Birds sang as a soothing light breeze passed through tall willow trees.

“How did you find this place?” Paul asked, tucking into their feast.

“I saw it from the air.”

“What? I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true. We flew out of Berkshire yesterday, and I saw these big empty hills beside the canal just outside town. I checked it out on the way to the hotel today.”

“Do you think it’s safe in that little toy airplane?”

“I’m going up with an experienced Air Force pilot with over a thousand hours pilot-in-command time. What could go wrong?”

He took a bite of fish and chewed for a moment, swallowed. “What sort of airplane?”

“Piper Cherokee.”

“Single engine?”

She nodded.

He pointed to her with his bottle of soda. “That’s your answer.”

“Like Nick says, ‘you want to know if this old airplane is safe to fly? How in the Sam Hill do you think it got to be this old?’”

“Like my wise old Dad says, ‘it’s always better to be down on the ground wishing you were up in the air than up in the air wishing you were down on the ground.”

She thought a moment. “Oh, for a horse with wings!’ said William Shakespeare. Ha. Got you there.”

He laughed. “Shakespeare for the win.”

“We’ve got company.” Paul pointed to a large white swan with an orange bill edging close to their picnic lunch.

“Oh my gosh, it’s beautiful,” Marisol said.

The swan curled its neck and plucked at its back feathers.

“I hope it’s not nesting. Aggressive buggers,” Paul said.

“My grandma says the Queen owns all the wild swans.”

“Well, I know it's illegal to eat them.”

Marisol gasped. “I should hope so.”

Paul took out a cigarette, tapped it on the pack and lit a match, cupping his hands around the flame. He leaned back on his elbows, humming as he smoked.

Marisol lay back on the blanket, idly tossing bits of bread toward the swan. A half wedge of geese flew overhead, honking about having missed the last flight to South Africa. A series of puffy cumulous clouds scuttled across the sky from the direction of the sea.

“I think of clouds in an entirely different way since I started my flying lessons.”

Paul took a drag on his cigarette and considered the sky. “Do you like punching through them?”

She shielded her eyes from the sun to look at him. “Oh no, I’m not permitted to fly through clouds yet. Not until I have an instrument rating.”

“How do you avoid clouds, in England?”

“If it’s very cloudy we stay on the ground. Yesterday morning was perfect, all sunny and clear. We headed south toward the coast, following the edge of the Channel. I’ve never been to Canterbury, and Nick took us close enough that we could see the cathedral. It was amazing. Then the first clouds started to form in the afternoon heat and I had to bank left and right to avoid them.” She laughed with the memory. “It felt like skiing in a mogul field, only the moguls were puffy clouds.”

Paul leaned in attentively as she described flying. She thought for a moment he was staring at her mouth, but she knew that was the way he gave her his undivided attention. He looked at every part of her face when she spoke. He really was the best listener.

“It sounds perfectly joyous," he said after a moment.

“It really was." She raised up onto her elbows and gave him a smile. "The clouds were making little shadows on the sea, I’ve never noticed that before.”

She sighed, happy with the memory. “Oh, and we saw some American fighter planes from the military base. They were parallel to us for a second, and then they rocketed past. It was like we were on a bicycle racing a Porsche. It felt like we were flying in reverse.”

“Huh. I would’ve loved to have been up there with you then.”

“Maybe someday I’ll take you up with me.”

“My knees are knocking just thinking of it.”

She settled back onto the blanket, blinking against the sunlight pouring out from behind a swiftly moving cloud. "Can you imagine trying to describe clouds to a blind person?"

Paul nodded. ”Clouds would be sort of crazy if you'd never seen them. Sort of like explaining music to a deaf person.”

“I’d just take a deaf person to one of your shows, they could feel every note."

"That's sort of how it is for us onstage any more, relying on vibrations since we can't hear a bloody thing but screaming.” He put out the cigarette and leaned in to place a kiss on her lips.

Marisol had a moment of pure contentment, wishing every day could be this relaxed and perfect. Wishing she could stop time in this moment and feel this way forever, spending sunny Sundays in the country with Paul and the promise of his body all over hers when the sun went down.

“What the blurry hell is this now?” Paul suddenly straightened, one hand over his eyes.

Marisol turned her head and followed his gaze.

A small, floppy-eared, reddish dog slunk close to the ground, edging toward the swan. They watched silently until the swan noticed the dog and charged, hissing and flapping its wings.

Marisol jumped up and waved her arms at the swan, shouting. “Go! Get away!”

Paul got to his feet beside her. “So much for your love of the beautiful swan,” he remarked as it waddled and fluttered, honking, down the hill to the canal.

“Oh no, Paul.” Marisol stood on tiptoes to get a better look as the dog veered away. “It’s a puppy. It’s way too thin.”

The dog glanced at them nervously over its shoulder.

“Sit down then, you have to know how to approach skittish things.” Paul cocked his head at her as she sank back onto her knees. “The same way I approached you, ya see. Slowly, carefully, and when you gain its trust, you pounce.”

He whistled and the puppy’s ears twitched back toward the sound. It stopped and sat, sniffed the air, and began to circle them, low to the ground, stopping every few seconds to point its nose in their direction, sniffing.

“Ok, don’t make direct eye contact, it’s threatening,” Marisol said. “When a wolf makes eye contact it wants one of only three things: to displace you, eat you, or mate with you.”

Paul looked at her, lips twitching. “I can relate to that.”

They exchanged a look of amusement. “Well, I totally made that up, so…”

“Did you now? It sounded so educated.“

“Of course I made it up, how could anyone know what a wolf is thinking.” The puppy continued to circle them. “Look, he’s getting closer. He’s starved.”

Paul picked up a piece of fish and tossed it in the puppy’s path. The puppy ran to the food, pounced on it and devoured it in one gulp. It snuffled the ground, looking for more.

Paul sat back on his heels and continued tossing scraps of fish and chips until the puppy was just out of reach, waiting expectantly.

“It’s an Irish Setter pup. No collar,” Paul observed.

“What are we going to do? We can’t leave him here.”

“I dunno, Mar. I have to be back in two hours for sound check.”

“I wish we had a leash.”

Paul thought for a moment, then unwound the scarf from his neck. He fashioned a loop at one end. It only took a few more pieces of cod and he had the puppy on one end of the scarf. Paul held out his hand and let the puppy lick his fingers. Then he reached out and fixed the puppy's inside-out ear. The little dog looked up at him, eyes wide and trusting, looking as if it wanted to follow him home. _That makes two of us_ , Marisol thought.

The puppy smelled Paul’s hand and then the blanket, looking for more scraps. Marisol could see it was a girl. She looked like she’d been a stray for awhile. Skin and bones, covered with mud. Marisol shook her head, imagining the poor puppy sleeping outside in the cold rain last week.

“Let’s take her along,” Paul said, standing up. “We’ll sort it out.”

The puppy followed obligingly down the hill, running between them and sniffing their shoes, hopeful for more handouts. At the car, Marisol wrapped her in the blanket and handed her to Paul to hold while she drove.

“How about we stop at a phone box and find the nearest vet? If they won’t keep her they’ll know where there’s a Dog’s Trust,” he suggested.

“She’s filthy. Could we just get this mud off of her before we take her somewhere?”

Paul checked his watch. “I suppose so. We got ourselves out of the hotel, I suppose we can get her in.”

In a few kilometers Marisol stopped beside a phone box. Paul handed her the puppy, got out of the car and checked his trouser pockets. “Shit. Have you got sixpence?”

Marisol reached in her handbag and handed him a small leather coin purse through the open car window.

He dialed directory enquiries and in a few moments had Neil on the line. “Nelly? I need you to meet us behind the hotel in ten minutes and bring that big hamper our food came in last night.”

Before getting back in the car, Paul donned his wig and mustache and the long tweed coat and patted the spectacles in the coat pocket. He turned to her for approval. “All right?”

“Just as handsome as the day I married you,” Marisol smiled sweetly.

 

**************

Neil deposited the cardboard box full of puppy in the black and white tiled bathroom and turned an incredulous look on Marisol and then Paul. “Sound check in an hour and a half, you know that, right Macca?”

“Yeah, Nell, keep your hair on, whyn’t ya?”

Neil rolled his eyes and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Marisol turned on the tap and adjusted the temperature. “Do you have any shampoo?”

Paul handed her a bottle of Yardley’s Shampoo for Men. Someone had written “and Ringo” on the bottle in black ink.

He rolled up his trousers and sat on the edge of the tub, feet in the water. Marisol handed him the dog, pushed up her sleeves and knelt beside him with the shampoo bottle. Neither of them were remotely prepared for what happened next. As soon as Paul placed the puppy in the warm water, she dove between the two of them, sailed through the air out of the tub and shook vigorously. Muddy water flew everywhere.

“Get her,” Marisol yelled, rubbing the dirty water out of her eyes. Paul swung his legs out of the water and grappled for the dog, lost his balance, and fell backwards into the half filled tub. Marisol was still pressing at her eyes when a tidal wave of water swamped her.

“Fucking hell!” Paul roared.

Marisol fell on her backside and blinked in astonishment. They were both drenched now and the puppy barely had her feet wet. She began to laugh uncontrollably. The longer she looked at Paul, dripping with muddy water, his expression furious, the harder she laughed, until she was lying on the floor of the bathroom holding her sides.

“Oh you think it’s funny, do you?” He stood over her, dripping. “Maybe I’ll drop you in the tub and see if you're still laughing.” He reached for her and his foot slid on the muddy tiles. He sank to the floor to keep from falling. Marisol laughed even harder.

The puppy wandered up to Marisol, cocked her head, and licked her directly on the mouth. “Arghhh,” Marisol yelped, jerking upright. “Oh, blechhht, right on my mouth.” She swiped an arm across her lips before noticing how muddy her sleeve was.

“Now that’s funny,” Paul chuckled, without much humor. “Ok, look.” He held Marisol by the shoulders. “We just have to be smarter than the bloody dog.”

He scooped the dog under one arm and crawled to the tub. “Come ‘ead, Mar, it’s like a Beatles show, we have to form a solid line to keep the puppy inside the bath.” Marisol crawled to him on her hands and knees, barely able to see through tears of laughter. She knelt beside him and took a deep breath.

“Whew. Okay.” She decided not to look at him again lest she would be unable to stop laughing. “Ready. I’ve got the Men’s… and Ringo shampoo.” She started to giggle again and fought to control herself. “Okay. Put her in.”

Five minutes and fifty gallons of water later, they had the puppy reasonably clean and Marisol had wiped most of the muddy water off the bathroom floor and kicked the dirty towels into a corner. She dried her face with the last clean towel and took it with her out of the bathroom. Paul was standing over the puppy, shaking his head, hands resting on his lean hips. “We are clearly not equipped for puppy parenting.”

“We just didn’t know how slippery she would be,” Marisol explained. She was moving toward the puppy with the towel when they heard a knock on the door. Paul turned to answer it.

“Where is my fish finger butty?” John walked into the room with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He took one look at the two of them, their faces and clothing streaked with dirt and the drenched dog wandering between their legs, and spun on his heel back into the hallway.

“Hey, come back, we could use some help here,” Paul called.

John waved a hand dismissively without turning around. “Can’t be arsed,” he said, the door slamming behind him.

“Well. He’s clearly a cat person.” Marisol dropped to the floor with a towel. “Come here, puppy.”

“She needs a name, don’t you think? Since we’re unfortunately going to have her for the next, I dunno, three quarters of an hour.” Paul settled on the carpet beside her.

Marisol captured the puppy and began rubbing her dry. The puppy caught the towel in her mouth and growled, vigorously jerking her head back and forth. “Ahh she’s feeling so much better now. Nothing like a warm bath.” She sat back, studying the little dog rolling around in the towel. “She’s copper colored, how about Penny?”

“Penny Lane,” Paul said.

“That’s a pretty name for a pretty puppy,” Marisol agreed.

“It’s an actual street, in the heart of Liddypool. John and I used to meet there to catch the bus.”

“Penny Lane it is then.” The puppy pranced away dragging the towel in her mouth, tripping herself and tumbling across the carpet, making them both laugh.

Paul scooted closer and touched her cheek. “You have a streak of mud right here.”

“Really?” She touched his jawline, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow. “This is the only spot where you DON’T have mud.”

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “We still have time to get even dirtier before soundcheck.” He tangled his hand in the damp hair at the nape of her neck, pulled her face to his and kissed her gently.

“I like your dirty mind,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him back.

 

********************

 

That evening Mal returned to the hotel to pick up Marisol in time for the concert. They waited backstage in a corridor while a group of handicapped teenagers in wheel chairs were rolled out of the dressing room.

Mal held open the door for her. John was addressing a genteel looking man of around thirty years of age in an immaculately tailored grey suit with a paisley scarf. "We're not bloody UNICEF, Bri, we're a fucking rock band. Enough with the cripples.”

"Sshh, John, behave!" Paul admonished. He took Marisol's hand and introduced her to their manager, Brian. She was immediately impressed. He had a crisp, polished accent and sophisticated, refined demeanor.

Paul had already told her a good deal about their manager. Brian had attended the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in London, and along with his brother in Liverpool he had established one of the largest record retailers in the North of England. When Brian became the group's manager, he smoothed their rough edges and smartened them up, making them acceptable to a broader audience. “We were in a daydream until Brian came along,” Paul had said. “He made it all real.”

“Miss Hemingway. I understand you had quite an excursion away from the hotel today,” Brian said. His face was impassive.

Was he angry about Paul leaving the hotel? Marisol looked to Paul for help but he was listening to John still complaining about the crippled teens.

“Do they think we can bloody heal them or something?” John was saying.

“It was nice getting outside in the sun for an hour or so,” Marisol said to Brian.

“Yes, well. I do hope the boys appreciate the need to let someone know before they go roaming about the countryside. In the future.”

Marisol didn’t flinch. She knew Brian was concerned about keeping “the boys” safe, but Paul was an adult. He could roam where he liked. She gave Brian her sweetest smile. “Maybe you could come with us. In the future. Everyone needs to get away sometimes.”

Brian didn’t return the smile. “Did you find a suitable situation for the stray animal?”

Good lord. What else did he know, and how? “Yes, I took her to a veterinarian who promised to board her overnight and take her to a shelter.”

"Hmmm, yes, I see." Brian fiddled with his cuff links, then nodded at her. “Perhaps we could chat for a moment after the show.”

Marisol hesitated as a flicker of apprehension swept through her. What could Paul’s manager want to say to her? Was it really that big of a deal that she’d sneaked him out of the hotel for an hour? Her eyes flicked uneasily to Paul. Absolutely no help at all.

He was speaking to John the way one would to an errant child. “I know it makes you uncomfortable, John, but they’re just kids."

“It’s not about the kids, Paul, it’s the bloody adults bringing the kids as an excuse to meet us,” John complained.

Marisol looked back at Brian. “Of course, that’s fine.”

“I’d like to hear what you think of the boys’ music. How it sounds in comparison to what you hear on the radio at home, in…California is it?”

“Yes, California,” she said, relaxing. Brian was only being a good manager.

The group had apparently wrapped up their press interviews before Marisol arrived. A portable television was playing in one corner of the room with the sound off, and a transistor radio was dialed to the BBC Light Programme. Ringo and George were sitting on the floor around a Scalextric model racing car set. Paul led her over to watch them play while John had a few more words with Brian. They were all fiercely competitive, whooping it up gleefully as they raced against each other. When Paul sat down for a turn, he looked up at Marisol.

“Could you fix me a fizzy drink, love? And one for yourself?”

“Oh, of course.” She looked around the room, spotting a bar set up near the door. Pepsi-Cola and Scotch whisky. Imagine that. She spent a few fruitless seconds searching for ice, and was about to ask Brian, but he was talking quietly to a police constable in the doorway. Her heart skipped a beat when she overheard a part of their conversation. The theatre had apparently received a bomb threat, and the bomb was supposedly beneath the stage. She heard Brian say, “Please get back to me the moment it’s sorted. I don’t want my boys upset.” Then Brian called for Mal and sent him out into the corridor with the police constable.

Hands shaking, Marisol turned back to the bar. Geezus. Who cares about warm cola when there could be a bomb under the stage. It took all her concentration not to slosh the drink all over her hands on her way back to where Paul was deeply immersed in their racing game. Should she tell him? She watched Paul shouting and blowing off steam, having a blast with his mates, howling with laughter when one of the racing cars veered off the track and crashed.

Brian waited placidly by the door, studying a set of typewritten sheets and glancing now and then at an expensive looking watch. He loved ‘his boys.’ Surely he wouldn’t let them go onstage if there was any reason to be concerned.

Mal returned and Marisol leapt from her chair. She waited while he had a word with Brian, then grabbed his arm. “Is everything okay?” she asked, trying to convey with her eyes that she had overheard the conversation with the police constable.

“Oh, aye, lass. I’ve been over every inch of that floor on me hands and knees with a torch. It’s not the first time we’ve had a scare. It always turns out to be bollocks.”

The moment the support act finished playing, the crowd began screaming for the Beatles by name: "POLE! GEOWGE! JAWN! RING-O!" John opened the door a crack and bellowed, “GLADYS! GEOFFREY! BETTINNNAAA!”

“Ten minutes!” Neil called out.

A piercing scream sounded just outside the dressing room door, and Paul ran out to see what was the matter. A fan had managed to break in through a stage door and was being manhandled by a doorman. Marisol watched from the doorway as Paul signed the teary fan’s autograph book while scolding the doorman for being so rough. Paul came back in the room and got John's signature. Then he wagged his finger at the girl and said, "No more breaking and entering, love," before sending her on her way.

After that, there was a bit of banter about which songs to play, a bit of primping in front of a long mirror, and the Beatles made for the stage.

Neil brought Marisol to the wings, where she stood beside Brian and watched ‘the boys’ take their positions. Neil and Mal raced out into the theatre to assist with security.

The theatre was packed to overflowing, and when the curtain parted to show John, Paul, George and Ringo onstage with their instruments, everyone in the audience went wild.

This crowd was ecstatic. The whole theatre was rocking, and the roof seemed to shake with the beat. At one point Marisol was sure she could see the chandeliers underneath the balcony swaying. Kids were standing on their folding seats, jumping up and down, dancing and falling between them. Missiles were hurled at the stage: cigarettes, autograph books, streamers, torrents of candy.

Paul waved his hands to get the crowd going louder and off they went, swinging and swaying through their hardest rocking material. They played for thirty minutes, ran backstage to regroup, then came back to thunderous applause and earsplitting screams.

When they finally ran offstage again, soaked with sweat and electric with excitement, Paul paused in front of her. “How was it?”

“You went down a bomb,” Marisol said with a relieved smile, knowing the phrase meant the exact opposite in England as it did in the U.S.

"Macca! Let's go!" Neil ordered, and the group dashed out of the theatre through a wedge of police officers.

The boys were safely ensconced in their rooms by the time Mal brought Marisol to the hotel. He took her to a large room where everyone was finishing a dinner of bangers and mash. Paul had saved her a plate of food and she picked at it, listening to them chatter about the show.

Neil was complaining that fans had let the air out of the tires of their new Ford Zephyr, presumably to keep the band from making a quick getaway. They'd almost been mobbed outside the stage door before Neil and Mal were able to shove them into a nearby police car. Instead of a much needed night of sleep, Neil now had to deal with getting their car to a shop.

They talked about the increasing madness of the fans. John mentioned a couple of girls had crawled through sewers below EMI studios last week to hear the group recording through the floorboards.

“Dirty birds,” Ringo said.

“Did you see that bird in the front row looking at us through a telescope?” George said, laughing.

"Is there any real food here, or only this English food?" Marisol asked.

"Ssshh," Paul said. "You like this. Don't make a fuss."

“I did a little math," Ringo said. "It’s amazing to see as many faces as kilometers we’ve traveled."

There was a long pause. “What are you talking about, Ring?” John asked.

"But it could be more or less. I don't really trust my maths," Ringo continued.

"It was a good setlist tonight, don't you think?" Paul said. "I was looking down, I was quite happy about tonight. Very sort of heroic, I think."

"Tonight was about seeing how hard we could rock softly," said George.

***************

“We are on the verge of something tangible, Mari, I can feel it. We’re at a turning point,” Paul said later that night when they were alone in his bed. 

Marisol lay curled in his arms, watching him smoke. “Are you happy?” she asked.

“Of course. I’ve never wanted to do anything else but play music for people. I'm addicted to it. I remember when I was a kid and not really liking school and having no idea what I wanted to be. And then I discovered the guitar and it was like, 'This is it. This is what I'm smart at.'"

He placed a kiss on her forehead. "Do you know what I mean?"

She nodded, thinking that maybe it was the same way she felt when she was behind the controls of an airplane.

"When I get onstage," he continued, "feeling the emotions, getting that adrenaline--it is always such a rush. Playing music and singing is the only thing in the world I feel 100 percent confident in, that I understand. I still have that feeling from being a teenager: 'I'm good at this, and I like this.' So I want to keep doing it, because it makes me feel good about myself."

They listened for a moment to the baying shrieks coming from outside the hotel punctuated by the whoop of a police siren.

“I don’t think it could get much more hysterical, do you?” Paul asked after a moment.

“I guess only time will tell,” Marisol murmured.

Paul finished the cigarette and turned off the light. Matching her breathing to his, Marisol finally fell into an uneasy sleep with fitful dreams involving aggressive swans and screaming girls and running from the police.

 


	15. And When I Get Home to You

 

In the middle of October, Beatlemania descended on the British Isles. The Beatles topped the bill at the London Palladium and were watched by 15 million British television viewers. Fans rioted outside the theatre and the Beatles were trapped inside their dressing room for hours. The national papers all took note. The next day photographs of the performance at the London Palladium were on the front of every London newspaper, along with the first reports of major outbreaks of mass hysteria among England's teenagers.

And that was only the beginning.

In Carlisle, a ticket line turned into a riot and teenagers were carried away in ambulances. In Yorkshire, 50 bobbies struggled to control 2,000 fans who had waited in line all night. In Newcastle, 4,000 fans waited in drenching rain.

The president of the Beatles' fan club in Liverpool became inundated with fan mail. It came in sack fulls, two to three thousand letters a day. A meet-and-greet organized by the fan club was attended by thousands of girls. They queued for hours to file past John, Paul, George and Ringo, who sat behind a protective counter. Some of them fainted, others burst out crying, and another lifted her sweater and said, ‘Touch.'

The band was invited to perform at the Royal Command Performance in front of the royal family in early November, and United Artists signed them to a movie deal.

Paul shared all of this with Marisol while the Beatles continued their relentless tour of one-night-stands throughout the countryside. As amazing as it all was, he and the others never seemed to dwell on their successes. They were always thinking about where they were going next.

During the last week of October the Beatles toured Sweden. They were due back in London on Halloween night. All that day Marisol waited anxiously at Margo's London flat, rereading the telegram she'd received from Paul:

ON THE DOWNHILL SIDE OF STOCKHOLM. MISSING YOU. SEE YOU THE 31ST LONDON. X JPM

She plopped onto the sofa and straightened a stack of newspapers that was already perfectly straight. She got up again, staring out the sliding glass doors at the rainy, blustery afternoon. Trees bowed in the wind and leaves collected in puddles on the balcony.

The phone bleated, startling her, and she hurried to the kitchen to answer it.

"Oh my god you're still in London, turn on the radio, they're rioting at the airport!" Angela barely paused for breath. "Are you listening to the BBC?”

"What? I know you are saying words but I have no idea what they mean.”

"The Beatles! Their plane just landed and it's being reported live!”

Marisol hung up and sprinted to the living room radio.

A newsman was shouting to be heard over what sounded like a soccer stadium full of girls screaming. "Much confusion here at London Airport. Thousands of young Beatle fans shouting, yelling, waving umbrellas and hats, shouting for their heroes, the four young men in dark clothes who've just disembarked from the huge blue and white airliner which has flown them from Stockholm.”

Marisol moved closer to the radio, adjusting the volume. It was hard to hear the reporter over the howling fans.

"...mounting excitement, the flashbulbs are going, forty or fifty photographers, a lot of airline officials, and now there's quite a crush at the bottom of the steps at the rear of the plane, scores of people down there with the flash bulbs going as the Beatles try to force their way through massive security precautions here to bring them to the main building. The fans are going wild here on the balcony. And they're having a wonderful time despite the pouring rain…"

The phone rang again and Marisol yelled, "Margo, can you get that? I can't miss this!”

Margo appeared in the hallway, frowning. "What in Sam Hill is all that racket?”

"Paul just landed and they're about to get mobbed, this is insane!" Her heart was racing. This was like nothing she'd ever imagined.

"Now the Beatles are making their way towards the main terminal, they're waving and smiling at the crowds, they're wearing short black overcoats, the Beatle haircuts stand out for all to see amidst the milling throng down there.”

Marisol's hand shook as she turned off the radio when the Beatles were safely inside the terminal. With the fervor of the reporter's voice and the amped up crowd behind him, she had been afraid for Paul's safety.

Margo was still on the phone in the kitchen, saying testily, "Calm down, Mother. I didn't say we were never coming back to the States. I said we had options. Am I supposed to wait until you die to live my own life?”

Marisol sighed. She'd heard this conversation a thousand times. She knew everyone's lines. Their mother would call Margo ungrateful. Margo would deny it. Mother would say the children would suffer by not being with their grandparents. Offended, Margo would say she knew what was best for her children. Finally, just when you think Margo is about to win the argument for independence, their mother would pull the Dad card.

"It's killing your father.”

Now Margo was telling their mother that she had histrionic personality disorder. She began spelling it for her, H-I-S…

Marisol threw her hands into the air. "Margo!" she hissed. "How much longer are you going to be? Paul just landed, I think he'll call!”

Margo examined her nails. "I have to ring off now, Mother. The Elvis Presley wannabe who is romancing your youngest daughter just flew in from Sweden and we must free the line.”

"You did not just do that.”

Margo held out the phone. "Mother wants to talk to you.”

"Seriously, what is your problem?" Marisol sputtered, covering the receiver with both hands.

Margo made a 'deal with it' face. "I wouldn't worry about it, you're the perfect one, I'm the black sheep.”

"Hello, Mother," Marisol said sweetly, turning her back on her sister.

"Hello, darling. What is this noise about you and Elvis Presley?" her mother demanded.

"What?" Marisol asked innocently.

"Don't say 'what', darling, say 'pardon'. What were you doing in Sweden with Elvis Presley?”

"Mother, you know that's ridiculous, Margo was just trying to get off the phone. How are you? How's Dad?”

"We're both quite exhausted from caring for all of your animals.”

Marisol sighed. The burden of her animals was mentioned in every phone call and letter from home. She rushed through the conversation as quickly as possible, replaced the receiver and rested against the kitchen counter next to the phone, flipping through _The Daily Standard_. The newspaper recently adopted a Beatles logo of their four fringed heads. That was the moment Marisol realized the Beatles were going to be huge.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. She picked up the phone and checked for a dial tone before turning away to help Margo with dinner for the twins. 

Dinner passed in a haze. Marisol couldn't keep her mind off the chaos she'd heard over the radio at London Airport. Every day it seemed like the Beatles were surrounded by more and more madness. How long could this last? she wondered. And how much crazier was it going to get?

When the doorbell rang, Marisol upended the kitchen chair in her haste to get to the door.

Paul was standing in the hallway shaking the water from his hair. She threw herself into his arms and he lifted her off her feet, laughing. "Mmmm, you smell like home," he said, breathing into her hair.

"You smell like jet fuel!" She clung to his damp neck. They hugged until Marisol felt one of the twins brush past her legs. She lifted her face from Paul's shoulder. "Lucy, come back inside.”

"Daddy home," Lucy said, hovering by the stairwell. She was dressed in a pink tutu, white cotton shirt with miniature hearts and tiny ballet slippers.

"No, sweetie, Daddy's working." She took Lucy by the hand and held the door open for Paul. She couldn't seem to stop smiling. "You look wonderful. How was the flight?”

"Terrible. Bumpy as crap. Couldn't see anything until we were twelve feet off the runway. We somehow cheated death, yet again." He shrugged off his coat and draped it across a chair.

"Well hello there, Elvis, how was the world tour?" Margo came out of the kitchen drying her hands on a dish towel, with Sophie attached to one leg. Sophie was wearing a black leotard with a homemade tail and a headband with sparkly cat ears.

"Great, the reception was fantastic. In Stockholm we had forty policemen keeping people off the stage, but the crowd still broke through and George got knocked over," Paul said. "I was wondering why his guitar sounded funny and I turned around and he was on the ground and the police were hauling people off.”

"What was going on at London Airport?" Marisol asked.

"Cor, the airport was crazy! There must have been 10,000 people there. We thought they were there to see the Queen, 'til we saw all the "Welcome Home Beatles" banners hanging off the balcony. How did you hear about that?”

"It was live on the radio, national news. It sounded like a horror movie.”

"They were screaming so loud they drowned out the noise of the jet engines." Paul said. "And there was a BBC camera crew there.”

Margo laughed. "You know the newspapers have invented a new word, Beatlemania. Maybe you'll make it into the Oxford Dictionary.”

Marisol nodded. "You're all over the papers. Come and look." She had saved the newspapers for the week the Beatles had been out of the country, aware of how serious Paul was about reading everything printed about the group. They sat on the sofa and Marisol pulled a stack of papers into her lap.

Lucy climbed onto the sofa and squeezed between them. "Hello little girl," Paul said.

Lucy examined him with big blue eyes shrouded by long eyelashes. "Daddy is in the sky," she said.

"So he is. Your Auntie Mari goes up in the sky sometimes too, isn't that right?”

Lucy stared at him a moment, then shook her blonde curls. “No."

"All right then." Paul pointed at Marisol. "Auntie Mari, you're not to go up in the sky, especially not in this weather.”

He looked back at Lucy. "Are you a ballerina for Halloween?”

Lucy shook her head again, frowning.

"She's a princess, can't you see that?" Marisol gave her niece a hug. Over Lucy's head, she whispered, "We don't have any princess clothes in England.”

"How can you not have any princess clothes in England?" Paul whispered back. "We bloody invented princesses.”

Marisol covered Lucy's ears. "Sssh, we're teaching them never to say that word, it's supposedly very offensive to the British.”

"We ruddy invented princesses!" Paul whispered.

Marisol handed him a stack of _The Daily Telegraph_. "You are all over these.”

Paul flipped through the papers, his brow furrowed with concentration. "Listen to this cobber. He says the Beatles have created mass hysteria and it's simply filling empty heads, just as Hitler did.”

"What a wanker," Marisol said. "Am I using that word correctly?”

"Yes, he's definitely a wanker, although that's another British word you might not want to teach your niece.”

Marisol read to him from _The Daily Mirror_ : "You have to be a real sour square not to love the nutty, noisy, happy handsome Beatles." She laughed. "And this article also compliments the Beatles for "not relying on off-color jokes about homos for their fun.”

Paul snickered. "Obviously never met us.”

They perused the papers together. There were multiple stories about schoolboys being sent home from school because of their long hair and apprentices not being allowed into factories until they visited their barbers.

Margo came up behind them and leaned over the sofa, giving Lucy a kiss on the top of her head. "I've been looking for you, Munchkin.”

"Margo, people are letting their hair grow because of the Beatles," Marisol said. "This is nuts.”

"It's all the post-war babies coming of age right now," Margo said. "The Post War Generation is becoming a force to be reckoned with.”

Paul said, "Look at this: A psychologist says the Beatles are 'relieving a sexual urge.’"

"Ha. I don't need a psychology degree to tell you that," Margo said. "Girls, it's bath time." Lucy slid under the newspaper Paul and Marisol were sharing and grew still.

"Oh, oh, where did Lucy go?" Paul said. "She was here a moment ago.”

"How do you know which one is Lucy?" Marisol asked.

"Because the other one is too shy to sit by me.”

Margo clapped her hands. "Right now, ladies, or no story time.”

When they were alone, Paul tossed the newspapers on the coffee table. He took Marisol's hand and kissed the underside of her wrist, a place she couldn't recall ever being kissed by anyone. Then he moved up her arm, kissing it until he reached the inside of her elbow, where she had never been kissed, either.

Then he leaned in and kissed her lips, slowly, softly, again and again until the noise of the rain splattering the window and the wet whoosh of traffic outside and her sister murmuring to the twins as they splashed in the tub in another room all faded away for them. Her arms went around his neck and he deepened the kiss and there was nothing but his lips and the familiar smell and taste of him and her fingers buried in his hair.

A bolt of lightning lit the room followed by a roll of thunder. The lights flickered and one of the twins squealed. He broke the kiss and pulled away, and the noise rushed back into their space.

She stared at him dazedly. “Wow.”

He rested his forehead against hers. "I missed you, Gorgeous, every day.”

"I missed you too.”

He sat back, reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a tiny white box tied with a red ribbon.

"What is this? Have you brought me a present?" She put a hand to her throat, willing her heart rate to return to normal after being kissed senseless.

"Might have done.”

She took the ring-sized box from him. "Please say it's Swedish chocolate.”

"No, sorry, it's Swedish vodka.”

Inside the box was a gold bracelet lined with colorful carved gemstones.

"Oh, Paul. It's beautiful." She turned the bracelet over in her hands. Each different colored stone was carved with scarab markings on the front and hieroglyphics on the back. "I've seen brooches like this, it's an Egyptian revival piece, right?”

"The jeweler told me the ancient Egyptians wore the scarab for protection. When I saw it I thought, you know, it looks like beetles. I wanted you not to forget me when I'm on the road.”

She felt her eyes begin to mist and quickly pressed her fingertips to her eyelids.

"What is this...are you crying?" He pulled her into his arms.

She shook her head. "I have something in my eye. Both my eyes." She rested her head in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. He encircled her with his arms, caressing her back. His pulse thumped beneath her cheek. She took a deep breath and tilted her head to look at him. "You know you're setting the bar pretty high for any other guy.”

"Can't help it," he said gravely. "I can't stop thinking about you when we're not together, which is practically all the time.”

"I know, that's the problem," she said, stroking his face, feeling his jaw roughened where he hadn't shaved since that morning. "If we could just be together for about a week straight we might get tired of each other, you never know.”

"Come on, that would take at least two weeks.”

"I guess we'll never know.” The bracelet sparkled in her hands. "It's beautiful, thank you.”

She held out her arm and he fastened the bracelet around her wrist. She smiled at him. "Now I won't forget you. Because you're so forgettable, and any day now you might stop being on the front page of every single newspaper in England.”

He laughed. "Isn't it mad? We don't even know what is going on. Our publicist spent the last six months begging for an inch of newsprint, and suddenly every journalist in the country is chasing him."

They sat looking at each other, drinking in the sight of each other. Paul looked pale to her, and tired around the eyes. "Are you hungry? Do you want a drink?”

"No, love. I can't stay long. I have to be up at the arse crack of dawn. We're starting a six week string of one-nighters tomorrow. Two shows a night.”

She felt an instant's squeezing hurt. "But you just got back!”

He shook his head regretfully. "I know. It's madness."

"Will you be in London at all?”

"Yes, but when we're here we'll have to spend the day doing television and radio and studio work and then racing to the show.”

She sat back, trying to hide her disappointment.

Paul fingered a lock of her hair. "It'll be all right, you'll see. We'll make up for it when we're together.”

Marisol nodded, not meeting his eyes, wondering if Paul realized that she'd be gone before the six weeks of one-nighters was over.

"The girls are ready for bed if you want to say goodnight,” Margo said on her way to the kitchen.

Outside the twins' room, Marisol showed her sister the bracelet on her arm. "They're beetles, isn’t it beautiful?”

Margo glanced at the bracelet, her lips quirked in a look of bemusement.

"What? I know you're about to say something smart-ass.”

"You mean like, 'anything to get those knickers down?’"

"Ha. He doesn't need to bring me a scarab bracelet for that.”

"I don't want to rain on your Beatles Paul parade, Missy, but he cannot stay the night here. The girls are too young to find out their beloved aunt is the consort to Prince Charming.”

"How narrow minded of you." Marisol studied the bracelet dreamily, turning it around on her wrist. "He can't stay long.”

Margo crossed her arms over her chest. "I would warn you once more about falling for him but something tells me it's too late.”

Marisol sighed. "I know what I'm doing, Gogo."

  
In the twins' room, Paul was sitting in the middle of the bed with Lucy on one side and Sophie on the other, reading to them out of a Beverley Cleary book. Sophie was lying with her back to him, playing her fingers through her favorite doll's hair. Lucy was leaning against Paul's arm and gazing up at him, transfixed, drinking in every word.

"Half of all two year olds choose Beatle Paul," Margo whispered.

"In a scientific study," Marisol added.

"Is that the end of the chapter, Paul? Time for bed, ladies." Margo said.

"Okay, you've got to tell me what happens in this book," Paul said, joining Marisol in the hallway outside the twins' room as Margo gave the girls kisses and tucked them in. "Is this bloody dog going to make it back home?”

Marisol glanced at the yellow cover. "It's a children's book, she's not going to kill off the dog, how cruel would that be?”

"I suppose you've never seen Old Yeller.”

She paused. "You're right, that movie traumatized an entire generation. But Ribsy won't die, the author probably has plans for him in another dozen books.”

"Just to be sure, how about we read the rest of this bedtime story in your bed, gorgeous girl?" He leaned down and kissed her just below her ear. A place where she had been kissed before, and liked it very much. Marisol smiled into his neck and walked backwards with him into her bedroom, letting the door click quietly closed behind them.

 

 


	16. It Won't Be Long

"I don't care if you're the ruddy Duke of Edinburgh, registered guests only."

The two girls in front of Marisol turned away dejectedly. "I'm Paul McCartney's sister," one of them called over her shoulder. "He's going to have your job."

“He's welcome to it," the officer said, lifting his hat and wiping his brow. "That and four bobs might get him a cuppa."

The police had formed a line around the front entrance of the manor hotel where the Beatles were staying. No one could get in without a hotel key or permission from Beatles' management.

Marisol didn't even bother trying to get through. The police had heard it all by now. She'd simply have to drive back down the hill and try to reach Neil from a phone box.

Two men in crisp suits were pulling camera equipment from the trunk of a car parked next to hers. "What's the manager's name?" she heard one of them ask. "Brian Epstein,” the other answered. “Another rock ’n’ roll Jew.” Laughter.

She froze. American accents, and here to see about the Beatles? She set her bag down and dawdled by the back of the car, hoping to hear them say something else. The American press had zero interest in the Beatles as far as she knew.

The keys jangled as she opened the trunk. The nearest man glanced her way. "Hello there, young lady.” He nodded at the tiny overnight bag at her feet. "Need a hand with that?"

 _Oh why not_. "Thank you, sir." She waited while he adjusted the camera straps around his neck and lifted her small bag into the trunk. He straightened and met her eyes. Tall, rugged, perfectly chiseled jawline, cigarette dangling from perfect lips. He nodded at her, closed the trunk and started to step away.

“Pardon me,” she said quickly. “Are you American?"

“Yes ma'am. Were based out of New York."

“I'm from California myself. Are you here on assignment?”

“ _Life Magazine_.” He squinted at her, and then to her amazement, he added, ”You’re not one of the Hemingway girls by any chance?"

Marisol blinked in surprise. “Well, yes...He was my grandfather."

The photographer tossed the cigarette on the ground and stepped on it, then stuck out his hand. “Mark Spencer. I'm a friend of Nick's. Flew with him out of Mather.”

“Oh, wow, small world. I’m Marisol, Margo’s sister. You know Nick’s stationed here now?”

“I heard something about that. I’d look him up if I had more time. Tell him Mark Spencer said hello.”

“I will.” Marisol smiled at him, trying to come up with a way to keep him talking. She was dying to know what they were doing here but didn’t want them to wonder what she was doing here. The other photographer was busy counting rolls of film in a small leather bag and writing something in a notebook.

“So, what brings you to Bournemouth?” Mark asked, with the curiosity of a _Life Magazine_ journalist.

“Oh…just visiting. I have a friend staying at the hotel but they probably won't let me past without a room key.” Marisol waved a hand towards the line of police who were turning away another group of fans. “I suppose I’ll have to go back into town and call from there.”

“Yeah, these long haired kids are causing a big commotion around these parts, aren't they?”

“Are you here to photograph them?”

“We are,” Mark said, smiling down at her. “Are you here to try and meet them?”

Marisol shrugged a shoulder. “I’m here to see a friend, but you never know.”

Mark and the other photographer exchanged a look. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if we helped you get past the cops.” He handed her a camera case. “You’ve just been promoted to photographer's assistant.”

Before he could reconsider, Marisol opened the trunk again and retrieved her overnight bag.

Mark eyed her speculatively. “You’re rather optimistic, aren’t you?”

“A girl can always dream,” she said with a smile.

 

The Branksome Tower Hotel was a Victorian era stone mansion with extensive grounds surrounded by a pine forest. Huge windows in the lobby featured a sweeping view of the Bournemouth Coast and the Isle of Wight.

There was no answer when she rang Neil's room, so Marisol left a message for him at the front desk and settled into a comfortable chair by the windows looking out over the hotel gardens. A tuxedoed pianist played Debussy on an elevated grand piano in the center of the lobby.

She wished Angela could be here with her. But Neil had told Angela not to come to any more shows because he was working nonstop and wouldn’t be able to watch out for her.

“Well, blast,” Marisol said when she heard this. “Isn’t he being sort of an ass?”

“He has more than he can rightfully handle,” Angela said, quick to defend Neil. “It seems your boy toy and his mates are driving him bloody crackers in four-part harmony.”

Angela went on to explain that since the boys could no longer leave their rooms, Neil and Mal and to some extent Brian pandered to them like sick children, bringing them food, records, filmstrips, even toys, anything to keep them occupied at the hotels where they were trapped until it was time for them to perform again.

As soon as they returned from Sweden the Beatles had begun their most grueling UK tour yet. Six weeks of one night stands through Britain and Ireland. By the time they finished this tour, Marisol would be back in California.

Paul remained mostly upbeat, but he told Marisol that John was getting short tempered. John and Paul were having to write songs for their next LP in the middle of the night when all they wanted to do was sleep. They slept on the road and in their dressing rooms, since they were trapped there each day from about four in the afternoon until the shows finished. Getting them in and out of the theatres was now a logistical nightmare for Neil and the local police.

On the days they had evening shows near London, they spent the afternoons recording television or radio shows or their next LP. Then they would be smuggled into getaway cars and driven home to catch a few hours of sleep so they could be on the road the next morning. Paul was often too tired to go out. The few times Marisol saw Paul, they would talk for a bit, make love and fall asleep. Their time together in England was slipping away.

 

Almost an hour later Neil showed up in the lobby, hollow-cheeked and gaunt, looking like he hadn’t slept in days and like he’d lost ten pounds since she last saw him.

“I hear you’re having a rough time of it lately,” Marisol said when they were in the lift.

“It’s bloody insane.” Neil rubbed a hand over his eyes. He told her how the crowd swarmed over an orchestra pit at a recent show and climbed on the stage en masse. John, Paul and George unplugged and ran for their lives, leaving Ringo madly kicking drums and throwing cymbals out of the way as he clambered from the riser with a look of terror on his face. The towns where they played often didn’t have enough police to secure the stage, so theatre owners had begun hiring local rugby and football teams to act as guards. But sometimes the players showed up pissed and only added to the confusion. Tonight in Bournemouth, 100 policemen would be on hand to protect the Beatles from the fans and the fans from themselves.

The Beatles had just flown back from two nights in Ireland and Marisol asked how the shows went there. "Imagine the wildest hysteria we've seen here. Then triple it. That was Ireland. The fans acted like they were witnessing the Second Coming.”

 

Dressed all in black, from his trousers to his turtle neck sweater, Paul was perched on the edge of a sofa in the television lounge, one knee bouncing up and down. He pulled Marisol onto his lap and kissed her.

“Hello, Beauty. You’ll never guess what some photographer chap just said.”

“Let’s see… ‘Pout for me, baby? Strike a sexy pose for daddy’?”

He laughed. “No. Subsequent to that. He said he’d just left a beautiful young blonde in the lobby who came all the way from California to meet us. And her grandfather was Ernest Hemingway.”

“Where is she? The aggressive little tramp.”

“Nah. She’s only looking for love like everyone else.” He wrapped his arms around her midriff, smiling at her. He looked even more gorgeous than usual in his black sweater, his hair shining. Each time she saw him, the pull was stronger.

Neil brought in a record player. Mal came in laden with gifts from fans and George hurried over to tear into them. Ringo was excited when food arrived. Brian passed out information about afternoon press interviews.

The room was a hive of activity, but her senses barely registered anything beyond the feel of Paul’s arms around her, the murmur of his voice asking about her week, his liquid dark eyes fastened on hers.

The door opened again and a journalist from a music publication introduced himself to Brian.

George spoke up immediately. “Could you please write that we’ve gone off jelly babies?” To prove his point, he cracked open the balcony door and tossed a box of jelly babies over the railing.

Paul abruptly lifted Marisol off his lap and grabbed Brian’s sleeve as he walked past. “What’s that fella’s name?” he whispered.

“Ray Coleman, _Melody Maker_ ,” Brian answered quietly.

Paul looked at Marisol, and with a tip of his head, he motioned toward the other room. “You should probably wait in there with Cyn while I work. You’ll be bored out here.”

Marisol sat there, _gobsmacked,_ as they say in England, watching Paul cross the room and clap a hand on the reporter’s shoulder. “Ray, isn’t it? Good to see you again. How’ve you been?”

_Like hey, here I am, your old pal Paul, remembering your name because we’re such good pals. And that girl you saw on my lap just now? We’re ‘just good friends.’_

She knew that Brian impressed upon the unmarried Beatles that they had to pretend they were some sort of celibate boy monks. He earnestly and repeatedly insisted to them, “You belong to every girl fan in England.” Paul said he didn’t particularly like it, but he accepted that Brian was probably right. All of the Beatles were invested in preserving their private lives from the fans and the press, and even from Brian to a large extent. Still, it bothered her to be treated this way.

Her pride was still smarting as she wandered into the other room where John was telling Cynthia there was no need for her to show up at the theatre until just before the second show.

“We’ll wait here together,” Marisol said when she saw Cynthia’s face fall.

John nodded. “I’ll tell Pauley.”

“It’s good seeing you again,” Cynthia said to Marisol. “I thought I’d be spending the day by myself.”

“You too! It’ll be fun. We’ll go shopping while they’re gone. Spend all your husband’s money.” Marisol stuck out her tongue at John’s retreating back.

They made small talk about Julian and London until Paul buzzed into the room and grabbed Marisol’s hands. “Baby, you’ll never believe this! The American television networks are here to film the shows tonight! All three networks!”

“Are you serious? How…?”

“I dunno, the news of the Royal Command Performance has finally reached the colonies, one would suppose. Isn’t it tremendous?”

Neil was calling from the doorway. “It’s go time!"

"The ship is sailing!" John yelled. "Don't forget to bring a towel!"

“Well, I’m off,” Paul said. “You’ll be all right here?”

“Oh sure. Cyn and I will just hang out in the room and play Bob Dylan music and eat our weight in jelly babies.”

“Fantastic!” He kissed her cheek but she could tell he was already a million miles away, dreaming of playing for American TV audiences.

"Don't forget a towel," John said again from the door.

When the boys were gone, Cynthia insisted they call room service instead of having lunch in the restaurant downstairs.

“Are you afraid of being recognized?” Marisol asked.

“Yes, actually. Ringo’s girlfriend in Liverpool was attacked over the summer, scratched and kicked while she was waiting for him outside the Cavern.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“And the girls outside our flat now? I can’t even take Julian for a walk in his pram for them calling me names and trying to trip me. One group of girls actually spit on me! We have to call the police now for protection whenever we want to leave the flat. All of the boys do. Hasn’t Paul told you that?”

Marisol shook her head.

In her calm, quiet voice, Cynthia continued telling stories of how their lives had changed just in the last couple of weeks. “I feel like I’m holding onto the tail of a comet streaking across the sky. And I’m expected to share my husband with the whole world while I stay hidden.”

Marisol felt a flicker of apprehension as she listened to Cynthia describing her life with John. It sounded eerily similar to her American grandmother’s marriage, which had ended in divorce as soon as her grandfather became famous. This was what life would be like if she and Paul became serious about each other. This was just one of the reasons why Marisol had to be ready to let him go, and soon.

Cynthia sighed loudly. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I knew what I was getting into. John has known since he was small that he was destined for fame.”

“Have you known him a long time?”

“We met at art school. It was a torrid affair from the start. My friends thought I had lost my mind. I was with him when his mother was killed.”

“Wait, what? John lost his mother too?”

Cynthia nodded. “He was 17. She was hit by a car.”

“Maybe that’s one of the reasons he and Paul have such a bond.”

“Possibly.” Cynthia shrugged a shoulder.

There was a knock at the door, and Cynthia rose to answer it. Two females in their early twenties wheeled in a room service cart. They glanced eagerly around the room and couldn’t hide their disappointment at seeing only Cynthia and Marisol.

Lunch was grilled sea bass with potatoes and vegetables. They shared a bottle of Rose as they looked out the window at the sparkling expanse of ocean. The large, rambling hotel was built on the top of a hundred foot cliff, and the Beatles’ rooms featured exquisite views of the sea below.

Two glasses of wine later, Cynthia suddenly wanted to talk about Paul. “Is it getting serious with you two?”

Marisol didn’t know how to answer. “I really like him, but I’m leaving in three weeks. Who knows if we’ll even see each other again after that.”

“Haven’t you talked about it?”

“Not really,” Marisol said honestly.

Cynthia studied her a moment. “You know I shared a flat with Paul’s ex-girlfriend. They were quite serious for two years. It didn’t end well.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“She was gutted.” Cynthia said sharply. “She fell pregnant and they were planning to get married. Then she lost the baby and Paul grew more and more distant, and he eventually told her he was too young to be with only one person.”

Marisol wondered if Cynthia’s earlier relationship with Paul's young girlfriend still colored her feelings about him. Maybe that's why she described him as a playboy. He would've been a teenager himself when all that happened. And this was only one side of the story. “It sounds like they were both very young.”

“She cried for months and finally left the country.”

Marisol pushed away from the table, wishing she wasn’t hearing this. Wishing Angela were here. Or her friend Donna from home. Donna would say, “Oh, piss off with the ex-girlfriend stories,” and that would be the end of it. And then Donna would ask Marisol, “Why are you waiting around a hotel room for a guy who is too busy to be with you?”

She stood at the window, watching an ocean liner slowly chugging across the horizon toward America. She missed Donna. And her horses. All she wanted to do right now was ride her horse Jet into the hills and feel the wind in her hair and the sun on her face. She felt trapped in this room and flushed with disappointment after waiting all week to see Paul and spending all morning getting here to see him for only twenty minutes. And this conversation with Cynthia was making her melancholy.

It was time to go home, start college like she should have done in August, make new friends, ride horses every day and fly planes on weekends.

Margo had phoned earlier in the week with big news. The situation in Southeast Asia was heating up daily, and pilots were being positioned closer to the potential conflict. Nick was being reassigned to fly training missions out of Travis Air Force Base near San Francisco. With Margo and the twins moving back to California at the first of the year, there was even more reason for Marisol to get back to her real life.

Being with Paul had been an amazing, unforgettable interlude, but it was becoming impossible to be with him. The way he lived now—sleeping in hotels, in a different town every night, hiding from his fans and keeping Marisol shielded from the press—it was getting to be too much.

 

Just before the second show, a chauffeur was dispatched to the hotel to bring Cynthia and Marisol to the theatre in the Beatles’ new Austin Princess. Mal and Neil had tested all the available limos, Cynthia said, and the Princess had doors that opened wider to accommodate diving in.

It was impossible to get close to the stage doors from the parking lot because of the size of the crowds, so Mal was paged to bring them through the front entrance. They were whisked down the left side of the theatre, through a throng of giddy fans taking their seats, past a phalanx of security guards and through the side stage door. Mal left them outside the dressing room with backstage passes around their necks, telling them to stay put while he made sure “everyone has their trousers on.”

Marisol gave Cynthia an amused smile. “Not sure what the big deal is. I _have_ seen a Beatle with his trousers down before, haven’t you?”

Cynthia thought for a moment. “Well, not Ringo. Not yet. He’s rather new.”

Marisol laughed out loud at that.

The atmosphere backstage was chaotic. Journalists and photographers and film crews milled about in the corridor outside the dressing room, waiting for their turn to interview and photograph the Beatles between shows. A man with a camera around his neck was shaking his head in utter bewilderment. “I never thought I’d see a British audience behave that way about anyone,” he said.

A female journalist was shouting into a wall-mounted telephone. “They’re here, they’re adorable, and America is going to love them!”

A frantic Neil rushed out of the dressing room on his way to complete some errand the boys or Brian had sent him on. He barked at Cynthia and Marisol as he charged past. “You ladies have a seat in the wings. The drezzy is a zoo and there isn’t any room.”

Like an obedient child, Cynthia led Marisol up a short flight of stairs to a set of wooden folding chairs hidden in the dark recesses of the stage, and there they remained throughout the opening acts.

No one offered them a drink or toilet facilities or even seemed to notice they were there for the next hour. Such was the glamorous life of a Beatles’ wife now that Beatlemania was in full swing. Just before the Beatles took the stage, Paul threw Marisol a wave and a wink as he flew past to take his position. From then on he seemed focused on giving the performance of his life.

The screaming of the crowd was already relentless, and when the curtains swept open to reveal the Beatles clutching their instruments, the noise was louder than the din of a dozen jet engines. Marisol’s hands flew to her ears; her first reaction was “God, this hurts!” All she could hear was solid screaming with just a little guitar underneath. She looked at Cynthia, who was beaming, her blue eyes twinkling with pride. Uncovering her ears, Marisol grinned back. So much for hearing the music. With her hands clasped in front of her mouth and butterflies in her stomach, she watched rather than listened to the Beatles battling to be heard.

The lights of the American film crews lit up the entire right side of the audience. The cameramen seemed more interested in the crowd than in the Beatles’ performance. Magazine and television photographers were frantically taking pictures of the incredible reaction of the fans through most of the show.

It was 25 minutes of pure audio anarchy. Jelly babies fell in showers. Police officers lined the stage and patrolled the aisles, providing crowd control and transporting overcome and fainting teens to the first aid station in the lobby that was being staffed by more than a dozen nurses. Fans stood on seat backs, shrieking maniacally, holding on to the shoulders of the people in front of them to keep from falling.

 

Onstage the Beatles clowned around, swung their guitars to a beat no one could hear, and smiled and laughed at each other. When they ran offstage the fans quieted momentarily during the playing of “The Queen,” then resumed screaming at full pitch. By that time the Beatles were in a police van en route to the hotel.

An hour later there were still 500 fans outside the backstage door. They wouldn't disperse even after several announcements that the Beatles had left the building. Finally Cynthia covered her recognizable bright blonde hair with a scarf and Mal whisked them out the front entrance past only a handful of fans. They were driven back to the hotel in a police car.

Brian had left to go back to London. He was flying to New York in the morning to meet with promotors and discuss the Beatles’ first visit to America. The rest of the Beatles and the musicians who had opened for them were in the mood to party. The lounge in their hotel wing was filled with food and drinks and dance music.

The show had gone well, no one had been hurt (except for a fan who broke through the line of police and hurled herself at the police van containing the Beatles), the Americans had seemed impressed, and everyone was in a celebratory mood. Waitresses and barmaids circulated through the lounge, trying to keep up with the demands of the partiers.

"Order whatever you'd like, we're charging it all to Brian," John shouted more than once. "We've made him a very wealthy, happy man!"

Paul popped over to Marisol holding a tray of sandwiches. “Are you hungry, love? We have ham and cheese butties.”

“Sure, I’ll have one,” Marisol said.

He paused. “Which sort? Ham or cheese?”

“Oh. Why couldn’t they put ham and cheese together in England? Too flavorful?”

He sighed at her. “I’m looking forward to coming to America to make fun of all your terrible food.”

“You’ll be most disappointed when you can’t find beans for breakfast.”

He nodded at the tray. “How about one of those nice flavorful cheese butties, there on the end like. There’s a good girl.”

A few minutes later he dashed up to Marisol with a wine list. They ordered a bottle of Barolo--a lovely red that her father said had the joy of Italy in it. Paul made sure Marisol had a glass of wine and people to chat with before mingling around the room like the consummate host, fetching drinks and asking everyone if they were having a good time. He would work his way through the crowd back to her, sweaty from running around being Paul, and whisper something like “I love your high heeled boots. I can’t wait to peel them off your lovely legs.” And then he would spot someone interesting across the room and off he’d go.

The party finally wound down, and Paul was all hands and lips and whispers in her ear out on the balcony, where they’d gone to get some air. It was windy and brisk, a hundred feet above the sea, but they stood for a few minutes swaying together, smelling the cold, tangy, pine-scented air and listening to the waves crashing on the shore.

"I thought about this...about you...all day," Paul said, when they were alone in his room at last. He pushed her onto the bed and hovered over her, his hands impatiently pulling at her clothes. "Are you my girl?" he asked between urgent kisses.

"Of course," she whispered, pulling at his belt, his zipper, shoving his pants down his thighs.

"Good girl," he murmured. He climbed over her, yanking her underwear down her legs and pushing her skirt up her hips.

They had the ravishing kind of sex where it felt like he was touching every inch of her and she still couldn’t get enough. And she never wanted it to end. She couldn't imagine anything sexier than the groan he made when he pushed inside her, the rough growl of her name, the way he stared, his eyes anchored to hers.

Angela was right when she teased about how sex would be with Paul. It was missionary, and there was lots of eye contact. And words whispered into her neck, but they sounded nothing like song lyrics. These sorts of lyrics would never make it past the BBC censors.

Afterwards, while Marisol lolled on the bed spent and dreamy, Paul was still bursting with energy. He got up and cruised around the room, gesturing with his hands.

“I feel like I've got a ticket to another planet and I’m moving there, and there’s no turning back. And I don’t know if I’m gonna like that other planet or have friends there.”

“Don’t worry. If anyone can make friends on another planet, it’s you. And John and George and Ringo have tickets too.”

He changed the record on the portable player to something by Smokey Robinson. He lit a cigarette. He splashed Scotch into a glass tumbler. “Yeah. That’s the great thing about it, going through this with my mates.”

Paul drained his glass twice before he stopped talking and smoking and pacing about the room. He came to the bed and handed her a glass of water.

She sat up and looked at the water, looked at him.

"You always have a big glass of water after you've been drinking wine," he explained.

She smiled. It was true. He always noticed little things like that.

He stood by the edge of the bed, watching her take a drink. "I want you to stay."

"I'm not going anywhere. It's the middle of the night."

“Mari. I never tire of looking at you, of being with you. I love the way you feel in bed. I love your curves, almost as much as I love your brain. I loved going through all the madness today knowing you'd be here waiting at the end of it. I want you to stay in England.”

Her heart stuttered. This was the last thing she'd expected tonight. With a shaky hand, she lowered the glass to the nightstand. “I think…I think that’s the whisky talking.”

He crawled onto the bed and dropped down beside her, pushed his knee between her legs, propped up on an elbow to look at her. “No. It isn’t.”

Her body tingled from the press of his thigh between her legs. No matter how many times they were together, she always wanted more of him. His whisky breath was warm and moist against her face. “How much did you drink before--”

“Stop it. I’m dreading the day you leave. I'm losing my mind thinking about it. I want you to stay in England. With me.”

She closed her eyes. This was half of what she wanted him to say, and half of what she was most afraid to hear. “That’s impossible.”

“It isn’t. Your mother is a British citizen.”

She pressed a palm into his chest and stared into his eyes, trying to understand where he was going with this. “No, I mean...Paul, I have friends I haven't seen in months. I have plans. I should already be in school. I have a whole zoo full of animals I'm supposed to be taking care of. My mother keeps reminding me.”

“Bring them over. I'll pay for it. Brian will sort it out.”

“Three horses? In London? Are you joking?”

“Do you have to bring all three? Is there a favorite?”

She stared at him, incredulous. “What are you talking about?”

He ran a hand along her hipbone. “We can get a place together, just the two of us, so that we can be together whenever I’m in London.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. He couldn’t be serious. “Paul, I'm 18.”

“Yes, I know. Actually you seem much older—“

“Not to my parents I don’t.“

“—and I don't see what that has to do with anything.”

“I can't move in with you. My father would have fifty thousand kinds of fits.”

“He doesn't have to know. He's in Iowa.”

“What? No one's in Iowa, ever. Idaho.”

“Doesn't matter. Stay in England, and I’ll speak with your father. I need you here.”

She almost laughed. He had to be drunk. “Oh, that will make all the difference to him, I’m sure.”

There was a long sigh as Paul lowered his head onto the pillow next to hers. He tilted her face to his, searching her eyes. “What do you want, Mari? I shouldn’t think I’d have to beg you to stay with me.”

His earnest voice pulled at her heart, and she reached out and stroked her fingertips along his jaw. She couldn’t imagine not being able to touch him like this. She also couldn’t imagine her parents finding out she wasn’t coming home because she was going to wait around in a flat in London and be available for sex at the whims of a singer in a rock ’n’ roll band. Because that’s basically what Paul was asking, wasn’t it? He wasn’t saying he loved her, or that he saw a future with her. He was saying he loved having sex with her and wanted it to continue.

“Paul, I’m crazy about you, obviously, and it’s going to kill me to leave, but I have a life of my own, and we both knew—“

His mouth was tight and grim as he rolled onto his back and flung a hand across his eyes. “What are we doing then? A holiday fling? Is that it?”

"Don't be ridiculous.” Her throat seemed to close up.

He looked at her again. “Do you know I haven’t been with any other girl since the first night we made love?”

She swallowed, blinking back tears. “Please don’t be upset. It’s all been so insane lately. I feel like I’m living inside someone else’s dream and I don’t belong there. I’m so confused. I just need…I need to go home and think...and take some time to figure out if this is real or not, before I could even think about…what you’re asking.”

He blew out a long sigh. “Okay, Mari. Have it your way. I’m too tired to talk about it any longer.”

“It doesn’t mean never, it just means that right now I—”

“I’m really too knackered to talk about this anymore, okay? Goodnight, Mar.”

He turned his back to her and switched off the light.

Where had all that come from? she wondered, her thoughts racing. She didn’t think for a minute Paul could be in love with her. It was like Neil said, he wasn’t in love with anyone but the Beatles. It was crunch time, her departure was imminent, and he wanted to keep his sure thing around for when he happened to be in town every couple of weeks. That was all it was. That and the Scotch, and the excitement of the night.

They were very fond of each other. They had amazing sex and fantastic conversations when they could steal a few hours alone in the midst of Paul's hectic life, but neither of them could know what it would be like to live together for weeks at a time. They might end up driving each other mad. And he would likely tire of her. After all, he could have anyone he wanted. Any girl in the world.

They lay beside each other in the dark, neither of them sleeping. Paul’s breathing was irregular, punctuated by the occasional drawn out sigh.

Finally she curled her body around his back, her chin against his neck, her arm around his chest, her knees behind his. He found her hand and locked his fingers with hers, and only then did she hear his breathing begin to slow and knew he was falling asleep.

Paul always had to be touching her to fall asleep, as if he needed the reassurance of a warm body next to him. Marisol slept better alone. But as she pressed herself against his bare back and listened to his steady breathing, she finally felt peaceful. She held him and her whirling mind began to calm. There were more important things than sleep.

 

When she opened her eyes, Paul was out of bed, sitting at the table across the room and scanning the newspapers with a pot of tea beside him.

“Morning. Do you want some breakfast before you go?” he asked.

“Mmm, I think I’ll just have some of that tea.”

He nodded and looked back at the newspaper.

She pressed her lips together as she watched him, a strange feeling ebbing through her, as if she’d lost something she hadn’t quite found. Paul was already distancing himself from her.

Blame it on the Scotch or not, he’d asked her to stay in England last night and she had not given him the answer he’d wanted or expected. It wasn't surprising for him to take a big step back.

The glass of water Paul had brought her last night was still half full on the nightstand. She downed it on the way to the bathroom.

When she had bathed and dressed, she found him standing by the window, one hand on the glass, staring out at the shimmering sea toward the Isle of Wight, now lost in a grey haze. He was barefoot and shirtless, wearing only a soft pair of worn jeans.

She stood beside him, wrapping her arms around herself to keep from reaching for him. “The reviews of the show were good?”

He nodded. “You know, I’m a bit embarrassed that I never asked you what it is you’re going to be studying in school.”

“Oh. It’s okay. Your life has been sort of off the chain lately. I imagine you head is in a whirl most of the time.”

“So what is it that you want to do?”

“I'm going to major in Public Relations. At first I thought it would be something I could do to help out in the family business, but since I took some time off to think, I’ve decided I’d rather work with a non-profit, something to do with animal rescue.”

He nodded, and then his eyes met hers. “One would think there would be universities in England that teach that sort of thing.”

Her heart dropped. “Paul, it’s not that I can’t see myself living here someday. But last night…I never expected it would come to this, so quickly, that you would be asking me to stay with you. It took me completely by surprise.”

“Yes. It’s taken me by surprise as well.” He stood there, his face closed, his body perfectly still. He was never this still.

Unable to stop herself, she wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned into him. Had he developed real feelings for her? Or was it only that he wanted their affair to continue like this, meeting up every week or two for sex in hotel rooms or in his flat? He was offering to play house with her, that was all. There was no way she was going to alienate her parents and change the direction of her life without knowing she meant more to him than an affair. They’d hardly had a proper chance to get to know each other, with all the madness surrounding him. Probably he didn’t even know himself how he felt about her.

He stood quietly letting her hold him as the silence grew.

"I didn’t mean never, I just meant not now,” she whispered.

He stiffened and moved out of her embrace, both hands gripping the windowsill. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you. You have a bit of drive.’

At a loss for what more to say, she said only, "So, I'll talk to you soon, then?”

He turned, gave her a long, solemn look. His voice was resigned. “Course you will. I don’t know what it’s like anymore to get to a hotel and not race to the phone.”

She tilted her face for a kiss. After a chaste peck on her lips, he sat back down at the table and shook out the newspaper. “I’ll phone you later to see you made it home safely.” His eyes were already on the news.

 

Driving back to her grandmother’s home, Marisol felt a dull ache of foreboding. Her mind reeled as she pondered the direction her life had taken. Never would she have imagined that only months after losing the love of her life she’d find herself tangled up in a situation like this. The thought of never seeing Paul again filled her with an acute sense of loss. And it was a very real possibility.

And if she stayed? She couldn’t fathom living the way Cynthia lived, pushing a pram past girls who spit at her and hurled insults, alone with her baby almost every night while her husband was onstage faraway being the object of fantasy for thousands of girls. Paul wanted her to stay now, but it would only be a matter of time before he got bored of her, the way he’d gotten bored of his young Liverpool girlfriend.

Being in Paul’s orbit was a rollercoaster ride. When she watched him onstage and felt the joy emanating from him in waves, she felt that same joy. When he held her in his arms and looked at her the way all the girls looked at him, she felt on top of the world. But those highs were always followed by goodbyes and long days of missing him, worrying if he was safe, wondering where his heart was. All those goodbyes. Sometimes it felt like all they ever did was say goodbye.

Once she got away from the madness, back home to her life in California, maybe all of this would start to make sense and there would be clarity. When she’d left, America was a Beatle-less world. What would it be like now, she wondered, now that all the major networks had filmed Beatlemania in action?

 

The footage of the Beatles taken that night at Winter Gardens in Bournemouth was broadcast in America on CBS Morning News on Friday Nov 22; two hours later John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, and there was no more appetite for light news about British rock bands. America was in mourning.

 

 

The footage of the Beatles taken that night at Winter Gardens in Bournemouth was broadcast in America on CBS Morning News on Friday Nov 22; two hours later John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, and there was no more appetite for light news about British rock bands. America was in mourning.


	17. Tomorrow Never Knows

During the next week Marisol had a lot of time to think. Angela was busy with exams, and Nick had flown Margo and the twins to Portugal for a quick holiday. Grandma Bellamy had come down with a bad cold and had taken to bed. Marisol spent her days running errands, walking the dogs, making tea and chicken soup and straightening an already immaculate house, and her nights wondering about Paul. Was he thinking about her too? Was he safe and happy? Did he miss her at all, or had he given up on the two of them and moved on?

The telephone was silent. It drove her mad. There was no way for her to reach him. She didn't know where he was. She couldn't even write to him—her letters would get lost among the thousands of pieces of mail from other girls trying to get his attention.

It was a ridiculous situation. She'd come to England to stop crying over Dan, and now she was leaving England heartsick over someone else. It had been foolish to think she could be intimate with someone like Paul and casually say goodbye when it was time to leave. They'd breathed each other's breath, slept in each other's arms, seen and touched every inch each other, shared their bodies and their secrets. Leaving him was going to hurt, no doubt about it.

But when she thought back over every moment with Paul, from the time she first laid eyes on him standing in the sun in Mrs. A's front garden until she watched him onstage singing his heart out for American television cameras, she wouldn't have wanted to miss a thing.

His joie de vivre, his merry smile, his obvious delight when he sang and played music in front of an audience, the way he looked at her when they were alone, the way he listened to her with his full attention--he was irresistible. She knew it like thousands of other girls knew it. And he was everywhere.

In every newspaper, on the wireless, on show bills in the train station and shop windows, even on television. He was everywhere but with her. She had to let him go. Evidently he'd already let her go, because the phone wasn't ringing.

And then finally it did. On Friday night, just before dinner, an odd time for Paul to call. Marisol was sitting beside the phone, flipping through a copy of _House Beautiful,_ bored and homesick, waiting for her grandmother to wake from a nap to see what she might want for dinner. She picked up the phone on the second ring, expecting to hear one of her grandmother's friends.

"Mari, have you been listening to the news?"

It was Paul, at last. She breathed a sigh of relief. "Paul! Where are you? You sound--"

"Have you been listening to the news?" he repeated. His voice was more grave than she’d ever heard it.

Her mind reeled with possibilities, all of them bad. "No...what's going on? Are you okay?"

"I’m fine, love. You should turn on the BBC."

"Is it another plane crash?"

"No, no… it’s your President Kennedy. He’s been shot. In Dallas."

She was rooted to the spot with the phone receiver dangling from her hand when her grandmother walked into the room and froze. “I heard the phone. What on earth has happened?”

“Paul says the president has been shot.”

“What? Your president? That lovely young Irish man with the beautiful young children?”

Marisol only nodded, too stunned to say more.

“God Almighty.” Grandma took the phone from her hand, replaced it and picked it up again, trying to reach an international operator to connect to Marisol’s mother in California.

All the while they flipped between BBC and ITV news reports, they tried unsuccessfully to place a transatlantic call. The ITV network interrupted the show _Take Your Pick_ with updates of the president’s condition, and his death was confirmed at 7:30 pm UK time followed by a two-minute silence.

An hour later Margo arrived looking pale and wide-eyed, dragging sleepy twins by their hands. Margo put the girls to bed upstairs and they listened to the news reports until the BBC signed off.

The newspaper that was dropped on the doormat the next morning was covered with the shocking news about JFK. Marisol pored over the _Daily Mirror,_ shell-shocked. If the President wasn’t safe in America, then no one was. What terrible thing would happen next?

In spite of all the pages devoted to the grim news from Dallas, the _Daily Mirror_ had room to print an appeal from Brian Epstein for fans to stop throwing things at the Beatles while they were performing. Brian pointed out that the boys had little chance to see anything hurtling toward them because of the spotlights.

Late that afternoon Marisol was finally able to reach her mother in the U.S. after scheduling the call hours in advance with an international operator and waiting through numerous delays. Her mother said CBS anchor Walter Cronkite had appeared on television in his shirt sleeves with tears in his eyes reporting that President Kennedy was dead. Businesses were closed and church bells everywhere were tolling, and everyone was watching nonstop television news coverage.

"I should go feed your animals now," her mother ended the call with a dramatic sigh, "while I still have the strength."

During that last week of November, Marisol noticed strangers turning their heads to stare at her with pity or sometimes curiosity in their eyes, as if the sound of an American accent reminded them of America’s national tragedy. She was even approached at the greengrocer and offered condolences and expressions of respect for the late President.

Marisol and her sister and grandmother watched news coverage relentlessly for three days and wept at the sight of John John saluting his father's casket. Finally, all cried out, they decided to get on with their plans for a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma Bellamy's house. Everyone needed something to do besides stare numbly at the television.

Paul phoned again just after President Kennedy’s funeral and asked after everyone. He was unusually quiet, a side of him Marisol had never heard before. It was the night before Thanksgiving, and during an awkward pause Marisol began describing the feast they were making: turkey and dressing made with oysters and chestnuts, fresh green beans, sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pies for dessert.

Paul was quiet for a few seconds, then said, "I'm fookin' starving, me."

He seemed forever hungry. Marisol suspected it was because he'd get involved with song writing or picking out melodies on the piano or guitar and forget to eat. "I'll save you some pumpkin pie," she offered, not even sure when she was going to see him again.

"Fook that. What time do the Americans have Thanksgiving dinner?"

"Dinner is at 1:30."

"Do you have room for me, and perhaps our friend Neil?”

“Of course. Always.”

"Then I'll see you at half past one, if not before. I need to see you, any road."

They rang off and Marisol’s stomach was in knots, wondering why he “needed to see” her. If his reticence on the phone was any indication, it wasn’t going to be good.

Early Thanksgiving morning Angela drove in from London to help Margo and Marisol with the food. The three of them chased Grandma Bellamy from her kitchen and opened a bottle of Chablis.

They cooked and talked and sipped wine and by noon were all feeling rather spirited, in spite of the fact that Margo found Lucy underneath the table with a photograph of Margo and Nick, busily cutting her mother out of the picture with a pair of pinking shears. Margo dragged Lucy into the bathroom to shout at her. Lucy hid behind the curtains to pout, where she stayed until Neil and Paul arrived with a big bouquet of yellow and orange carnations and a paper bag full of boiled sweets.

Paul stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking as beautiful as ever in a rather tired, pale, haven’t-seen-the-sun-in-a-month English sort of way.

Marisol immediately placed a kiss on his cheek and a glass of wine in his hand. “Howdy, stranger."

“Hello, Beauty,” he said in a low, composed voice.

Neil and Angela immediately disappeared in the Austin Princess, allegedly to drive down the lane to meet Neil's grandmother. They returned an hour later holding hands, looking so giddy and acting so giggly that Marisol had other suspicions about where the Princess had been.

Meanwhile Paul immersed himself in the domestic chaos, looking happy as a puppy, romping with the twins and the dogs. He followed Marisol from room to room, his fingers brushing hers when they passed in a doorway, resting a hand on her waist as he watched over her shoulder while she made him a drink, with his eyes always on her.

The phone calls may have slowed considerably, but the chemistry between them hadn’t waned one bit, she realized. The deliberate touching, the prolonged eye contact—Paul obviously still felt the attraction. But there was definitely something on his mind. He would laugh at Lucy's antics, then look up at Marisol and his face would grow still, his smile straighten, his eyes pensive. As if he had something to say and was biding his time.

In the spirit of the American holiday, Grandma made everyone hold hands around the table and list one thing they were thankful for before they were allowed to sit and eat.

Sophie said “Mommy and Daddy” and Lucy said only “Daddy” which made everyone chuckle. Marisol said she was grateful that her family and friends were safe, and Paul said he was thankful his friends could cook.

Dinner was a success, all the dishes somehow making it to the table at the same time and at the right temperature. Neil and Paul polished off full plates of food and helped themselves to seconds. After two glasses of wine, Paul threatened to immigrate to America if Marisol could make this sort of meal happen every day. When dinner was over, they went into the sitting room where Angela put a Ray Bryant record on the hifi and began teaching Lucy and Sophie how to dance the Madison.

Margo started organizing a game of Charades, and Paul appeared at Marisol’s side. “I haven't much more time. We need to talk.”

Marisol nodded toward the kitchen door.

Mrs. Bellamy was standing before the open refrigerator, bowls of leftovers arranged on the serving counter. "This is one time I'd like to have one of those huge American refrigerators, Duck. Paul, would you like some turkey sandwiches to take away with you?"

"Not half!" Paul answered. "I've seen some tender things in my life, but nothing as tender as that turkey."

"The girls know their way around a turkey."

"They do indeed."

"Grandma, we told you we'll clear everything up. Margo is waiting for you to play Charades."

Her grandmother wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. "Make some sandwiches for the boys then."

"I will. I'll take care of it."

Ramsay was faced with the difficult decision of whether to follow his mistress out of the kitchen or wait for the next scrap of food to fall on the floor. His furry brow furrowed as he watched Grandma leave the room, but the lure of turkey was strong. Lily sat ladylike beside the table, her tail tapping a delicate tattoo, her eyes focused on the plate of meat.

Marisol stopped in front the counter, a loaf of bread and a roll of tin foil beside her. Paul stood across the counter from her, leaning forward, his weight on his elbows as he silently watched her making sandwiches. She glanced at him and blinked away with a nervous flip in her stomach. She’d forgotten the effect of him up close. Nerve endings rose to the surface of her skin. Her hands ached to touch him. Her heart ached to tell him how much she’d missed him these last two weeks. And why shouldn’t she tell him?

“I missed you,” she said.

He nodded. "I know. I missed you too."

“Then why didn't you call? Did you want me to see what it would be like once I leave?” she blurted out.

"No, Mari. I know how much we’ll miss each other, I don’t need a trial run."

"Then why were you so distant?"

His brows drew together in a picture of confusion. “What? Of course I was distant, I was in fucking Cumbria. Ten miles from the Scottish border. And everywhere in between.”

He blew out a sigh and reached for a slice of turkey, took a bite, and tore the rest into two pieces. One bite for Ramsay and one for Lily. The dogs now waited patiently at his feet, intense brown eyes riveted on his hands.

“But I’ve done a bit of thinking.”

As soon as he said it, Marisol dreaded what would come next. This was the part where he’d tell her if she wasn't going to stay in England he'd find someone who would. She focused on the sandwich making, praying that whatever he was about to say wouldn’t end with her dissolving in tears and ruining Thanksgiving.

"I was, as you may have gathered, a trifle upset the last time I saw you," Paul began. "I've been thinking about what you said and it was wrong of me to pressure you. I understand you want to go home for Christmas."

He leaned closer, tilting his head. “Look at me.”

Her hands stilled. She lifted her eyes to his.

“I want you to promise me something, Mari," he said in that silky smooth voice of his. "I want you to think about coming back to London after the first of the year, with a distant view of us being together.”

The words rattled around in her brain. _A distant view of us being together._ What did that even mean? That he wanted them to live happily ever after? That he wanted her to wait in a flat in London while he toured the country? It was such a British thing to say. No wonder her parents were always at each other’s throats.

“What does that even mean?”

He looked baffled. “How could I make it any clearer, Mari? When you click with someone, you shouldn't let them slip away."

She swallowed with difficulty and found her voice. “You think we click.”

He came around the counter and reached for her hands, holding her fingers lightly in his. They stared at each other and the energy between them seemed to grow even more electric.

“Listen to me. After you left Bournemouth I did a lot of thinking. I thought about how hard it was going to be to keep this going after you left, the way my life is now, and I thought about all the reasons we should let it end. I went through the week feeling like shit but telling myself that letting you go was the sensible thing to do.

"Then your President was shot and I rang you up, and hearing your voice for those few seconds, I was gutted. That night I dreamed you didn't exist. That was it, the whole dream. You didn't exist. I woke up in a panic, sweating. And I knew I couldn't lose you."

Her breath left her lungs. If he felt the same way she did, what now? What were they going to do?

“I’m running from the very person I’m chasing,” Paul said, his lips pulling up to one side in a smile. “This is how I know I’m falling for you. Will you think about coming back after Christmas, Mari?” His eyes searched hers. “Please?”

It was impossible and she knew it, but she heard herself saying yes. Because when he looked at her that way, she'd say yes to most anything.

His eyes flashed with relief. He squeezed her hands, the words tumbling out. “We’re going to be on the south coast next week and I’d like for you to come to our show so we could talk about it, would you do that?”

Next week. It would likely be the last chance to see him play before she flew away.

“I'll do my best.”

Paul took the two steps closer to her, pressing the length of his body so close that she had to tilt her chin to look up at him. “We’re going to be all right.”

The heavy drumming of her heart thrummed in her ears. She was both relieved and terrified. “Yes. Okay.”

"We need to be going, Macca." Neil was standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Right, Neil.” Paul took a step back and let go of her hands. “Here, let me help you finish this up.”

Together they packed a paper bag full of sandwiches. Marisol added a pumpkin pie.

Paul stopped in the sitting room to offer his thanks to Marisol’s family for the meal. “Thanks very much, it was lovely, cheers, all right, ta, thanks again.“

Marisol bit her lip to keep from smiling. It always amused her hearing British people say goodbye. Even on the phone, Paul would say goodbye twelve different ways before ringing off.

 

Angela and Neil were standing near the road having their own private goodbye. It was a cold November afternoon, grey clouds scuttling across the sky and blocking what little warmth the sun was providing.

Paul went to the car and came back holding a record album sealed in plastic. "Our new LP."

"No way. I need that." Marisol snatched it from his hands, staring at the cover. _With the Beatles._ She couldn't believe she was in possession of fourteen brand new Beatles songs, most of which she had likely never heard.

The cover was a striking, black-and-white portrait of the band. Quite a departure from the simplistic cover of _Please Please Me,_  it was alluring and artistic. The four unsmiling Beatles looked somber and wary and slightly dangerous and very sexy.

"Oh my god. Beautiful," she whispered.

Beside her, she heard Paul chuckling.

"Did I say that out loud?" She smiled up at him. "Thank you. I can't believe you've had time to make this work of art. It's amazing."

"You might want to listen first before you pronounce it amazing."

"A new album by my favorite British band...no, my favorite band anywhere...is bound to be amazing. Thank you. I need this. America needs this, actually.”

Paul slid his fingers into hers and tugged her closer. When he pressed his lips to hers, she hoped, and almost believed, that they would be all right.

 

 

Neil and Paul left with enough turkey sandwiches and pumpkin pie to feed a hungry rock band. Marisol and Angela stood at the edge of the drive and waved until the Austin Princess disappeared in a cloud of dust. Neil had said the Princess was recognized by fans now, so he would have to rendezvous with police five miles outside the town where the Beatles were playing so that Paul could be smuggled to the theatre in a police van.

Marisol took Angela’s arm as they walked back to the house. “Remember when they were driving around the country in that crummy van?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Angela said.

“Oh that’s right, I forgot you were such a Johnny come lately in the world of Beatles. You've only been around since the Ford Zephyr.”

“Things move pretty fast out in the provinces,” Angela said with a secretive smile.

“You can say that again.”

“I have a ruddy paper to write. Do you want to talk for a bit before I go?” Angela asked.

“You read my mind.”

In Marisol’s room they sat on the bed, listening to the Beach Boys on a portable Dansette and sorting through a stack of pictures from their boat trip through the Cotswolds.

“Neil says Paul asked you to stay in London,” Angela said without preamble.

Marisol sighed. “I don’t know what to do. It’s impossible.”

“You could always stay with me.”

“I thought about that, actually, but my dad would never go for it. He’s footing the bill for college, and he wants me in California where I can help Marcus with the winery and take care of the horses and all of my other shit.”

“What do you want?”

Marisol squirmed uneasily under Angela’s scrutiny. “I don’t have any money of my own right now, so it really doesn’t matter what I want, I suppose.”

“Paul has money.”

Biting her lip, Marisol looked away. “It doesn’t feel right to let him support me when we've only known each other a few months. The thought of it messes with my head. How could it be a good idea to be dependent on him like that? And besides, he’s always gone, so…” She hugged her knees to her chest. “What am I going to do, Ange?”

Angela was studying a photograph of Paul standing beside a set of manual lock gates in his skipper’s hat. He was smiling down at Marisol as she held a pair of sunglasses up to him from inside the boat. “My mum says you meet people at certain moments in their life, and yours. It might not be about finding the right person, but finding a good person at the right time.”

“He could be the right guy at the wrong time, is what you’re saying.”

She shrugged and handed Marisol the stack of photos. “You and Paul have to decide that.”

 

Later that night when the house was still, Marisol finally got the chance to give her undivided attention to the Beatles new LP. She turned the hifi volume on low and lay on her back almost under the speaker so she could still hear every note.

It was difficult to believe, but this second album sounded even better than the first. Their sound was more confident, altogether more polished. This album was full of wild and up-tempo rhythm and blues styled songs, eight original compositions and six covers, beginning with a trio of Lennon-McCartney songs. There was John’s plaintive voice opening with “it won’t be long yeah till I belong to you,” followed by John’s beat ballad “All I’ve Got To Do” written in the style of Sam Cooke.

Paul’s “All My Loving,” with its irresistible melody and sunny, simple lyrics, was bound to be an instant hit. As soon as the song finished Marisol picked up the needle and played it again. This time she recognized it was the tune John had played on the reel to reel tape player at his flat, telling her Paul had written it mostly on his own. It was her new favorite song, and the story of her life.

"Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, tomorrow I'll miss you," Paul sang the opening line, his voice clear and strong. Could any words more perfectly sum up their romance? She might rewrite them though: "For three months I'll kiss you, forever I'll miss you." Melodramatic, yes, but probably true for her nonetheless.

And then, almost at the end of Side One, there was the the soft plunk of guitars and Paul’s angelic, pure voice singing about the birds in the sky, in that unmistakable Northern accent:

But I never sor them winging  
No I never sor them at all  
Till there was you.

That voice. That was the voice for her. It probably always would be. She listened to the conventionally romantic "Til There Was You" a second time, tears filling her eyes.

What if it America discovered what England already knew and Paul's lovely voice and beautiful face were everywhere when she got home? What would it be like to see him every day, hear him everywhere, and not be able to touch him or talk to him?

 

The day after Thanksgiving the Beatles released the single "I Want to Hold Your Hand" backed by "This Boy." Advance sales passed the one million mark before it was released. It was the first time this had ever happened in Britain.

 _With the Beatles_ was a hailed as a knock-out, selling over half a million copies on the first day. Jacked-up Beatles fans mobbed local record stores to get their hands on it. Police showed up to keep things under control. As November turned into December, Beatlemania showed no signs of letting up.

 


	18. Take These Broken Wings and Learn to Fly

“The first thing a good pilot does is look at the sky in the morning to check what the winds will be,” Nick told Marisol. “The success of an emergency landing can depend on whether you land into the wind or downwind.”

“The success of an emergency landing” was evidently pilot speak for “whether you live or die,” Marisol guessed.

It was the morning of Paul’s concert, and Nick had taken Marisol up in the Piper Cherokee for her final flying lesson in England. She now had 20 hours of flight training and could soon qualify for a sports pilot certificate, which would come with restrictions: she could only fly light aircraft, only during daylight, and not in airspace which required communicating with air traffic control. But if she continued taking lessons in California, she would soon have a private pilot’s certificate.

The wind was shifting, and Nick decided that made it a good day to practice touch and go landings. Nick showed Marisol how to determine wind direction even when there was no wind sock by observing smoke, dust clouds, even crop movement or a body of water. Marisol was so absorbed in flying that the afternoon slipped away. By the time they returned to the originating airfield and shut down the aircraft, she was hours late leaving for Paul’s concert.

There was motorway construction all along the way and far too many roundabouts, where she would queue in a long line, moving forward two feet at a time, then drive around in a tight circle for two or three miles until she could manage to lurch out onto the correct road.

Roundabouts were one thing she wasn't going to miss. Thank god for American traffic lights. The light turned green and you knew it was safe to go, the decision was made for you, leaving Americans free to think about more important things, like fast food fried chicken and french fries and pizza, all of which she missed.

After a traffic snarl at a one lane bridge it was clear she was going to miss the concert entirely. Frustrated, she drove instead to the hotel, five miles out of town, to wait for Paul there.

It was a blow to have missed the concert, but Marisol contented herself with the fact that she’d gotten one more lesson with Nick. Flying made her forget everything else. Her problems seemed to fade away as soon as she got above them. "Ah, it’s good to be back in the air again," Nick would say the instant the wheels left the runway. It felt that way to her too.

 

 

All of the Beatles and Neil seemed exhausted when Mal brought Marisol up to their floor. They slumped on the hotel furniture, legs sprawled, nibbling at plates of egg and chips and drinking whisky while they focused on a small black and white television set.

"Where the blurry hell have you been, love?" Paul pushed his plate away and pulled Marisol onto his lap.

"Somewhere over the blurry Channel, mostly," Marisol said.

"Were there a lot of roundabouts along the drive?" Paul asked.

"Um...not really...why do you ask?"

"No reason," Paul said with a little smile. He had ordered a bottle of Chablis for her and began pouring a glass. He winked at her as he placed the wineglass in her hands.

"It's such a shame to leave now that I have you so well trained," she said, smiling at him.

"Exactly my point." They clinked glasses and he watched her take a sip before gulping his whisky.

"How was your show? What did I miss?"

Paul shrugged. "Nothin', really. Same as always."

"We showed up, made a lot of electronic noise that no one could hear, and barely escaped with our lives," John said.

"If it weren't for "God Save the Queen" we'd have been flattened long ago," George added.

"They stand and listen like good little British girls until "The Queen" ends and then they race out to tear off our clothes," Ringo explained.

"So we have two minutes and thirteen seconds to vanish, basically," Paul said. "But thanks to our mate Neil here we always seem to pull it off."

"What are you watching?" Marisol asked. Their television show seemed to be wrapping up.

"I dunno, some new show. It's about this old bloke called The Doctor and his group who travel back in time like, in a police call-box, of all things. This time they ended up with a tribe of cave people creating fire or some shit."

“Really? How was it?”

“It was good, I guess,” Paul said.

“It’ll never last,” George remarked.

“Oh, I dunno, it might be a keeper,” Neil said. He had just brought in a film projector and was setting it up in the center of the room. John, Paul, George and Ringo had all bought 8mm movie cameras, Marisol was told, and for the past week they’d been amusing themselves on the road making arty films.

Cigarettes were lit, more whisky was poured. Marisol settled back beside Paul, eager to see the artistic splendor that had sprung from these four creative geniuses. Neil operated the projector while Paul provided narration, George quietly chain-smoked, John lay across the bed with a bottle of scotch, and Ringo flitted around the room making humorous comments and clowning around.

They watched for an hour: four almost identical films of street lights, cars passing, men digging holes, a seagull swooping from a balcony, a man alone in a field repairing a stone wall in the fog and rain.

“Why did you all make the same exact movie?” Marisol asked as the last film wound down and the lights were turned on.

“Well why do you bloody think, Hemingway?” John tapped the ash from his cigarette, not hiding his annoyance. “We’re all trapped in the same bloody car and the same bloody hotel rooms, aren’t we?”

“Hey, I talked to that farmer fixin’ the wall,” Paul said. “It was up in Yorkshire when we stopped for petrol, nobody around but this farmer. He owned both fields on either side. There was an opening between the fields anyway where a gate should be, so no discernible point to fixing it. So I watched him awhile, and I finally walked up and asked why he was standing out in a cold rain rebuilding a wall. He looked at me like I was a prat and said, “Because it’s fallen down, of course.”

“There you are,” John said. “And that is why the British countryside is so unfailingly lovely and timeless. You can thank your Yorkshire farmers for that.”

Neil held up two movie film canisters.

 _“Billy Liar_ , _”_ George called.

While Neil threaded the film, Paul tilted his head toward Marisol. His eyes scanned her face before slipping to her mouth and down…down again. Then he leaned in and whispered into her ear, “I can’t believe I get to touch you tonight.”

The clicking of the projector drowned out Marisol’s sharp intake of breath. Paul was looking at her as if he might devour her at any second. Goose bumps spread along her skin at the suggestive tone of his voice and the longing in his eyes. She trailed her nails down his arm and linked her fingers with his and tried to send a message with her eyes. A message that said something like “You, me, your room, now.”

Paul merely squeezed her hand and looked back at the screen. _Billy Liar_ turned out to be a British film about a young man from the northern provinces with scriptwriting ambitions that featured Julie Christie as his girlfriend. Ten minutes into the film, Marisol theatrically stifled a yawn. Five minutes after that, she did a pantomime sweep of her watch in front of her eyes. "Goodness, is that the time?"

Paul stood and picked up the bottle of Chablis. "Right. I'm off to Bedfordshire, lads."

"Off to Shagfordshire, more like," John said drily.

"Don't be a nob," Paul said, pulling Marisol to her feet and fitting an arm around her waist.

"Give her an Aussie kiss for me, Pauly," John said, crudely wagging his tongue.

"Jog on, you nutbag," Paul said.

"I don't understand a word you two weirdos are saying," Marisol said.

"Come 'ead and I'll show you," Paul whispered, letting the door close behind them.

Paul went straight to the portable record player in his room and turned it on. When a familiar piano riff began to play, he turned and gave Marisol one of his sexiest smiles. "If I go, a million miles away, I'd write a letter, each and every day..." Sam Cooke's soulful voice filled the room.

 

 

[Nothing Can Change This Love - Sam Cooke](https://youtu.be/d3TkNgdUH8w)

 

"Uh oh," Marisol said, grinning.

"Uh oh?" Paul held out his arms.

"This is the one that makes my knickers drop." She walked into his arms.

"Knickers? Where'd you learn that word?" He began to turn her slowly around the room.

"From my British…lover.”

"Aren't you a lucky lass."

She pretended to be concentrating hard. “I only wish I could remember..."

“Come here.”

He dipped his head and kissed her, his mouth soft and delicious and tasting of scotch. He kissed her slowly, carefully, tasting her. He kissed her like kissing was the only way they had to communicate. His fingers stroked her cheek, her ear, the back of her neck. Her arms went around his neck, her fingers curling in his hair. He sucked on her lower lip and she made a whimpering sound.

He pulled back, cupped her face in his hands. With a fingertip he swept her bangs to the side so he could stare more clearly into her eyes. “I can’t get enough of you, Mari, do you know that?” He kissed the corner of her mouth, bent his head to nibble at her jaw.

She closed her eyes, vibrating beneath his firm hands. She wanted to pull him down on top of her, feel the reassurance of his body if only one more time.

He licked her earlobe, murmuring, “It would wreck me to lose you,” while his hands grew busy on her body, moving from her breasts, over her thighs, his fists bunching her skirt as he worked it over her hips.

She tilted her body into his touch, feeling him hard and ready, pressing against her. Her knees grew weak. “Please,” she rasped against his neck. “The bed. Please.”

His hands returned to her waist, rougher. He yanked her sweater up and over her head and unzipped her skirt, working it down her hips. Cupping her in his hands, he drew in a jagged breath through his teeth, whispering, “Put your hands on me.”

She worked at his clothes until he stood there, naked and beautiful, the muscles of his bare back under her hands.

They fell onto the bed, his weight half on her, his skin hot against hers. He played her like an instrument, total body lovemaking, with see God now results. Each time they made love it was different. Sometimes it was mellow, sometimes rough and demanding, sometimes all consuming. But every time she was with him she was lost in the pleasure, in the emotion. When he was deep inside her, she felt the bond between them strengthen. All she wanted was for it to never end.

But it always did end, of course. Morning would come, and he would drive a few hundred miles farther away from her. She squeezed her eyes closed, wanting to hang on to these few moments of feeling so held, so peaceful. This tiny space of time, this threshold between the way he’d made love to her just now and the day they would say goodbye, she cherished it and thanked it. They held each other for awhile, his chin resting on the top of her head, not saying anything.

Then he kissed her forehead and rolled out of bed, lit a cigarette and walked across the room. Marisol watched him standing beside the record player, naked and perfect, brows knit in concentration as he braced a vinyl record between his hand and his thumb and blew away the dust before positioning it on the turntable.

“It won’t be long yeah,” came John Lennon’s voice, followed by the “yeah yeah” call and response from Paul and George.

Marisol held back the sheets for Paul to climb back into bed. He lay beside her, smoking. Through the first two songs of _With the Beatles,_ Paul told her all about “double-tracking” and “layering”, “voice dubbing” and “instrumental overdubbing.” Everything had changed since they made their first LP, Paul said. _Please Please Me_ had been recorded in one day, basically capturing how the band sounded live. In _With the Beatles_ they took time to use all the new studio tricks they’d learned to enrich the sound.

Paul grew quiet as “All My Loving” began to play. He crushed his cigarette into an ashtray and listened, his brow knit in a frown.

“Do you realize the first three songs on this album, all written by you and John, are all about being away from home, and coming back home?” Marisol asked.

“Huh. I guess that sums up our lives in a nutshell. You write what you know.” Paul chewed the pad of his thumb thoughtfully for a few seconds, then popped out of bed and carefully lifted the needle from the record. “It brings me down to listen to these songs with crappy reproduction when I know how good they sound in the studio.”

He put the record in its sleeve and started playing a live recording of Marvin Gaye. He looked up at Marisol for a beat, then bounded across the room and dove into the bed, his face landing between her breasts.

“Ow! God! You’re such an animal!”

He licked a path to her neck and growled into her ear. They wrestled and giggled for a few minutes, then found a comfortable position with Paul’s arm under her head.

“The new album is doing great, isn’t it?” Marisol asked when Paul had settled onto the pillow beside her.

“Cor, yeah. We got a silver disc for it before it was even released. Pre-orders were insane. We’ve done everything here now. Number one single, number one album, the Palladium, performing for the royal family. Now all that’s left is America.”

“You’ll kill it,” Marisol said, completely convinced.

Paul shook his head. “I really don’t think so. But it’s gotten mad here in Britain.” He told her about some of the recent craziness on tour—how they’d had to exchange clothes with the police at a recent show to get into the theatre. After the show they’d fled like escaping refugees down a pitch-dark corridor into an adjoining firehouse where they’d slid down the pole and waited while a decoy fire engine lured the fans away.

George was hit in the eye with something hurled at the stage recently, and the next night Ringo was hit in the head with a shoe. Last week in Yorkshire, thousands of fans battled with the police and sixty teens were crushed and injured in a stampede. The wildness grew daily.

“You know, sometimes I feel as if there’s nothing I’d like better than to get back to the kind of thing we were doing a year ago,” Paul mused. “Just playing the Cavern and other gigs around Liverpool, hustling every night, getting paid the princely sum of sweet fuck all. I suppose the other lads feel that way at times too. As if you’d like to turn back the clock.”

"Do you miss Liverpool? Your family?"

"'Course. I've got bushels of cousins and aunties and uncles back home. But that train has left the station and there's no stopping it."

They faced each other, their heads on the same pillow, neither of them thinking of sleeping. It was as if there was too much to say, too much to finish, to waste it sleeping.

"You're a good Auntie," Paul said, his fingers stroking her hip. "It's one of the first things I noticed about you. Do you want a big family of your own?"

"I think so. I always thought I'd have four."

"Will you work, or stay home and take care of your family?"

His hand stilled and he waited for her to answer what seemed to be an important question to him.

“I don’t know, I spent a lot of time with a nanny when I was little. When I was three years old my mother went to Paris for a year to take cooking lessons with Julia Child. I mean, that's great, I'm glad she makes gourmet meals, but I'd have been happier as a little kid with my mother home every night making macaroni. And maybe she should have been paying attention to her marriage. I’d like to stay home with my kids, but who knows. My dad says do whatever you want with your kids, because whatever you do will be wrong.”

“Your dad. He sounds a bit like Lennon.”

“Ha. There is nobody like Lennon.”

“My mom worked,” Paul said. “I remember looking out of my bedroom window in the middle of the night, watching her peddling her bicycle through the snow, off to deliver a baby. I remember wishing she didn't have to work.” He sighed. “You know, I used to look around working class Liverpool, at all the fighting, the struggling, the misery...and I thought what's the basic problem here? It's money, you know? I was just a little kid when I realized if I could find a way to make enough money it would solve everything.”

“But it doesn't, really,” Marisol said. “My parents have money and they're not happy. When I was growing up my parents would throw fantastic parties, then the guests would leave and they'd be drunk and my father would make some offhand comment and my mother would start hurling dishes across the room at him. I'd lie in bed, cringing, listening to glass shattering and doors slamming. Every time they had a party we'd know not to leave our bedrooms without slippers on until the housekeeper came to clean up the broken dishes.”

Paul brushed her bangs from her eyes. ‘Is that why you wanted to get married at 18? To get away from home?”

“Well, I mean, sure, who doesn’t want to get away from that, but I was in love.” She looked away from his penetrating eyes. Sometimes it was a pain how perceptive he was.

“Do you believe in God?” she asked, to change the subject.

“Not much. Do you believe?”

“Of course. I’m a human being, aren’t I?”

“What does that mean? Do you choose to believe or you must?”

“Both. Because I don’t want to lose people and think I’ll never see them again. I want there to be something more than this. There must be.”

Marisol had the strangest sensation just then. If Dan had lived, she would have never met Paul. She would have been content with Dan and built a life with him, completely oblivious to this British boy across the ocean. All of the laughter they shared, all of the kisses and caresses, she would have never known. How strange to think she would have missed all of this. One day she might have heard his voice on the radio and never given him a second thought.

Paul was quiet for a long time. She wondered if he was thinking about his mother.

She kissed that soft spot she loved just behind his ear. It was one of her favorite places to kiss, and he always reacted as if she was tickling him.

“I want to draw you." He stretched and climbed out of bed. He went to the closet and pulled on a pair of pajama pants. Then he handed Marisol a white dress shirt. "Put this on."

He watched while she sat up and pulled on his shirt, nothing on underneath. It barely covered the tops of her thighs. He tilted his head, reached out and unbuttoned two of the top buttons. “God, that is sexy.” He posed her lying on the bed, propped on one elbow, and arranged her hair to fall over one shoulder.

He took a small sketch pad from his briefcase and a couple of pencils and pulled a chair up to the bed. They continued talking about anything that popped into their heads.

“What are the names of your horses?” Paul asked.

“Jet is the one I mainly ride. He’s gorgeous and acts like a star. Calamity—she’s lived through a rough time and has a bit of a wild side, and Huckleberry is a Belgian gelding. He has a really loving, outgoing personality. If people come over to ride and they haven’t ridden horses much, Huckleberry is a kind horse.”

“And your dogs?”

“Brumby, Beau and Cookie.”

“What sort are they?”

“Cookie is mostly Australian Shepherd, mostly. They’re all mixes, they’re rescued.”

“I’m going to have a dog, as soon as I have a place of my own," Paul said. "I think maybe an old English sheepdog.”

He squinted at her. “Best relationship advice you ever got.”

“Ha. This wasn’t for me, but at Margo’s wedding, my father told her, “If you ever go back in time, DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING.”

“I take it he approves of Nick.”

“He was glad she’d settled down. I guess Margo had a bit of a wild side for a while there.”

Paul stopped drawing and whistled between his teeth. “Nick is a lucky man.”

Marisol whipped a pillow from under her elbow and flung it at his head before he had a chance to react.

“Hey, watch it.” He examined the sketch and frowned, flipped the pencil over and erased an errant pencil mark. “I bet you didn’t launch pillows at Picasso’s head when he was at your grandfather’s house.”

“I bet he wasn’t lusting after Margo.”

Paul scoffed/laughed. “I bet he was.”

Marisol plumped another pillow under her elbow and resumed her pose with a sigh. “The best advise I ever got was from my brother. He said before you get married or move in with someone, go on a good long road trip with them. You need at least 13 hours straight in a car, at least one night in a mediocre hotel in a questionable part of town, and make sure to forget something crucial. At the end of the trip if you look at each other and say ‘Where are we going next?’ then you're golden. If you say ‘We are never doing that again,’ look out."

“When can we leave on this road trip?”

“Your entire life is a road trip.” She smiled. “In your case, we’d probably need to stay home for 13 hours straight. So what’s the best advice you ever got?”

He chewed his lower lip, considering. “My dad said, ‘Marry the one who gives you the same feeling you get when you see food coming at a restaurant.”

Grinning, Marisol said, “So you should propose to the waiter?”

Paul grinned back at her. “Whenever I see my food coming, I’m always thinking, ‘Man, that other guy got the fajitas, they smell so much better than the chicken I ordered.”

Marisol laughed. “And you’re looking at his fajitas thinking, ‘you gonna finish that?”

“And I’m thinking, ‘how the fuck am I going to pay for this?' Could also apply to matrimony."

They laughed together. “So you really think that was good advice?" Marisol asked.

"It's better advice than the time he said, 'they're all crazy, Son, just pick one."

"I should say so."

After a few more minutes Paul squinted at the drawing and tore it up.

 _Artistic temperament,_ she supposed.

“You’re difficult to get,” he said. “This artificial light, it lies. I can’t draw by it.”

He tossed the sketch pad and pencil on the night table and picked up his Leica camera, snapping away while she posed until she got bored of it and made faces at him. Then he put down the camera and stretched out on the bed beside her. His gaze traveled over her face. “So. Have you thought about coming back to London after Christmas?”

Marisol felt a knot rising in her throat. She really had no answer to give him. “I have, it’s practically all I think about.”

Paul frowned down at her. “And?”

She cleared her throat uneasily. “Okay, Paul. You want me to move to London, but are you even going to be there?

He stroked his chin as if he were imagining a goatee. “When we finish this tour we're doing a Christmas show until middle of January, then three weeks in Paris, then, if "I Want to Hold Your Hand" does well in the U.S. market, and Brian thinks it will, then we'll be coming to America. Two weeks, maybe. After that we'll be in London making a movie before we start a tour in the spring. So yes. I'll be in London on location literally all of the month of March.”

"March. And then you'll tour again."

"You'll like spring in England, Mari. It's like a huge garden. More shades of green than you can imagine."

She drew a deep breath. “I know, but my father…he’s footing the bill for college, and if I was older, say, if we were talking about graduate school and I was 21 or something--"

“Is it money you're worried about? Because we are in the happy position of not having to worry about money. I'll feed you and house you, and you can wander around London during the day and rescue stray animals and do anything you want to do, really. You can even drive my car. I can't drive, so what the hell.”

“I think we’re getting way ahead of ourselves,” she said quietly.

They stared at each other across a ringing silence.

“I need to tell you something, Mari.” Paul pulled away slightly, a serious look on his face. “I’ve been faithful to you, since our first night together. But if you stay in California, I’m not really sure how long I can—“

She placed her fingers against his lips. Oh god. She did not want to hear this. “I don’t expect you to not…to not go out when I’m gone.” Her voice broke and she swallowed, battling the flash of pain at the thought of Paul with anyone else. “I just want us to stay friends. To always be able to talk about anything and everything like this, and…not hurt each other, and maybe someday…”

“Of course. We will. But if I found out you were sleeping with someone else, I’d go mad. I’d want to bash his brains in,” Paul said with quiet emphasis.

She rolled back onto the pillow, trying not to give in to the tears that threatened. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s probably not going to happen. How could anyone follow Paul McCartney?”

“Yeah. I’m a fucking legend. But I still can’t keep the girl, can I?”

He lay beside her on the pillow, their shoulders touching. They were quiet for a long moment. He slid a hand down her arm and joined his fingers with hers.

“Paul. Remember what you said the first time we spent the night together?”

“Oh hell. There’s no telling.” He rubbed a hand over his face before continuing. “I hate when people start a sentence with 'remember what you said...?' The only thing going through my mind right now is, ‘oh fuck, what did I say’.”

“You said maybe it wasn’t our time, and that maybe our story would take longer to write,” she told him, her voice hushed and trembling.

“Mmm. I remember.”

“So maybe we’re only putting our story on hold while you’re busy being world famous. Maybe someday we’ll start writing it again.”

Paul turned his head, locked eyes with her and licked his lips, warming up to his persuasive best. "Just hear me out. We could find a flat together. My schedule is crazy, it’s true. But you could just…” He looked away, down at the bed. “You could enjoy the city. London is the most beautiful city, love. There are endless things to do. You’ve had a really hard year and maybe would be happy just having a mellow winter in England.” Looking back up at her, he added quietly, “With me.”

His hair had fallen into his eyes. Even partly filtered, they were so expressive she felt gooseflesh break out along her arms.

Marisol didn’t have an answer for his offer, so she didn’t give one. She couldn’t seem to make him understand how her parents would react to his proposal. She closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. They lay shoulder to shoulder until she curled into his body, her hands sliding up his chest and into his hair. She pressed her nose into the muscle between his neck and shoulder and breathed in the clean smell of him: hotel soap and the hint of ocean underneath.

She was going to miss his smell, his touch, so much about him. But not the madness that followed him everywhere. Maybe when the Beatlemania phase ended it would all be different, if Paul still wanted her by then.

Paul rolled to face her, kissing her neck, her jaw, her lips just once. He lingered, eyes open. His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her bottom to her thigh and lower, to the back of her knee. He pulled her leg over his hip, fitting her to him. Between her legs, she felt the familiar jolt of desire for him. She could feel him, too, lengthening and pressing against her. But instead of taking it anywhere, they finally fell asleep.

 

Marisol picked up a newspaper on her way out of town the next morning to read about the concert she had missed. A local reporter described the show this way: “I have not attended the mass torture and execution of 5,000 assorted farmyard animals, but I imagine the noise they would make would be very similar to that which forced my fingertips deep into my ears. In any case, I could hear more of the music that way.”

With a paper cup of hot tea in one hand, Marisol drove away from Paul and Beatlemania and back to her grandmother’s house to begin her last week in England.


	19. The Night Before

From the window of her fourth floor room in The Dorchester, Marisol watched Hyde Park disappear under a blanket of snow.

Paul had rented a room under the names Mr. and Mrs. Ramon for their last night in London and sent a car to Margo’s flat to bring Marisol to the hotel. The room was lovely: exotic carpeting and cherry wood furnishings and an impressive four poster bed with Irish linen sheets and a white duvet, soft as a cloud. There was an open bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket on the table beside a plate of chocolate covered strawberries. All that was missing was Paul.

After bidding a tearful goodbye to her grandmother at the train station that morning, Marisol boarded an early train to London, where she trudged with her suitcase through falling snow to a nearby Pan Am ticketing office. One last lunch with Angela, then a taxi to Margo's flat, crawling through the streets as large white snow flakes fell on the grey city. Chilled and frazzled by the time she reached the hotel, she poured a glass of champagne and unpacked a paperback copy of  _Peyton Place_  and sank beneath a sea of fragrant bubbles in the amazing tub. The hotel bathtubs were made of Italian marble and supposedly the deepest in London. Heavenly.

She dressed for dinner in a red and black color block dress and knee high red suede boots and checked her slim gold watch. It was after eight, and she'd been waiting hours for Paul to finish performing, or writing, or recording, or filming television, or whatever else he was doing to make everyone so delighted with him. She worried that Paul was having trouble getting here with the roads disappearing under the snow. She worried that he would be mobbed in the hotel lobby. She worried that there was more to worry about that she couldn't yet imagine. After pouring herself another glass of champagne, she bit into one of the strawberries and watched a lone black taxi move slowly up the street, its tail lights illuminating briefly before disappearing into the snowy night.

When the knock finally came, she raced to the door, heart pounding with anticipation. A man with a droopy mustache and a flat cap held two fluted champagne glasses aloft. A recognizable black eyebrow arched over a pair of heavy dark eyeglasses. 

"Evenin', lass, I seem to have misplaced a bottle of bubbly." He was looking at her with those beautiful amber eyes, smiling at her with those perfect pouty lips.

“I’m sorry, sir, there is nothing bubbling in this room any longer,” Marisol said with a laugh.

“I can fix that,” the man said, sweeping into the room and sweeping her into his arms, bringing with him the scent of snow and of Paul. Marisol sighed against his neck. His smell was one of the things she would miss most.

He kissed her and she giggled at the way the mustache tickled her lips. She reached up to pull it off but he stayed her hand.

“Let’s go out.”

“Can we?”

“I reckon so. There’s no one about. London is closed due to snow. All but this one pub across from the park. D'you fancy popping round?”

“Of course. I’ve never been to a real English pub.”

The snow fell slowly and silently, dampening the normal city clatter. They slid over snowy sidewalks, huddled together against the wind, in their own private snow globe.

“I like your sexy red boots,” Paul said. “They make your bum swing when you walk.”

“I like your sexy new look.” Marisol took her hand out of his coat pocket and straightened his large eyeglasses. “All you need is an eye patch instead of these glasses. You look like a brainy Euro pirate who likes jazz.”

He winked at her. ”A pirate who likes your booty.” He led her into a cobblestoned alley and they ducked beneath a treed archway covered with twinkling lights.

Inside the small pub, Paul pulled his cap down even lower while they examined the scene. It looked like it was ripped out of an old storybook of medieval England, cozy and atmospheric with a dark wooden interior and forest-green floral wallpaper. Portraits of nobility hung on the walls under a yellow sculptured ceiling. Decorative fireplaces blazed on either end of the room.

There were a few couples in booths by the windows and a group of middle-aged men clustered at one side of the bar, loudly discussing how the England team should have no trouble with Norway. In one corner a group of tourists huddled over a map. Somewhere near the bar a radio played Frank Sinatra. The patrons who glanced up at them soon went back to their pints of ale.

Paul pulled her under his arm and led her to a spot at the bar near one of the fireplaces. They sat facing each other on tall, upholstered stools. Marisol hooked the heels of her boots around the wooden bar of Paul’s stool, one of his legs between hers. It was lovely, this snow. It meant they could, with just a little disguise, venture out into the night and have a date like a normal couple.

"Shall I see what sort of wine they serve in this fine establishment?" Paul asked.

Marisol shook her head. “It’s my last night in England. I want what I can’t get at home.”

Paul wagged his eyebrows at her. “I’ll see to that later, love. What do you fancy to drink?”

Marisol glanced behind the bar at the row of brass taps. “I fancy the English pub experience, whatever that may be.”

Paul looked up when the bartender approached. “My good fellow, might we have two pints of London Pride, if you please.”

The bartender tipped his head at Marisol. “She legal?”

“Doesn’t she look legal, old boy?” Paul sounded affronted. “Put her on the tab.”

“The pride of England,” Paul said when their drinks arrived. “Brewed beside the River Thames. Named for the flower that shot up out of the bomb sites left by the Blitz.”

“To London Pride.” Marisol touched her glass to Paul’s.

They drank their pints and ordered plates of chicken pie and mash and watched the snow hitting the windows through twinkling colored lights, while logs crackled in the fireplace next to them. If there was anything more cozy than being cocooned inside a dark English pub while snow whirled outside, Marisol couldn’t imagine it.

When Paul realized no one in the bar cared about who he was, he tucked his glasses into his shirt pocket. He leaned an elbow on the bar and rested his chin in a palm, giving Marisol all of his attention. She loved that about him. The way he listened so carefully, tilting his head towards her, his eyes endlessly examining her expression. He made her feel like she was the only other person in his universe.

They talked about snowy-day things and how certain experiences can shape your life. They talked about their childhoods and their families. Paul told her about growing up listening to his father playing the piano for huge family sing-alongs. "Learn to play the piano, Son, and you'll always get invited to parties," his father liked to say. He told her about walking through Liverpool neighborhoods as a kid and hearing music coming from every house, people singing, playing instruments.

"It was going poor, a very poor city, very rough. But people there have a sense of humor because they are in so much pain. They are very witty, always cracking jokes, and it's an Irish place. It's where the Irish came when they ran out of potatoes, and it's where black people were left during the slave trade or whatever. Jewish people immigrated from Eastern Europe with their own musical culture and started music halls and the like. It's cosmopolitan, and being a port, the sailors would come home with blues records from America. Always people talking and thinking about music. That's how I grew up."

Their chicken pies arrived, doused in delicious gravy with a nice crisp crunchy pastry full of huge pieces of chicken.

“This is amazing,” Marisol enthused, not realizing until then how hungry she was.

“I think you’re starting to fancy it here,” Paul observed.

He began talking about a pub in Mayfair he’d visited with Neil last month. They’d played nine card brag with a table of drunk American businessmen and Paul was on a winning streak and ended up with a sack full of money. He said he’d gone outside and distributed his winnings to homeless people on the streets of Mayfair at four A.M.

“I felt like Robin Hood,” he said. “Stealing from the rich Americans to give to the English poor.”

They made more small talk while they devoured their dinners, and when they were finished Paul ordered another round of drinks. While they were waiting, a middle aged couple walked up to the bar. The man was frowning at his bill and puzzling over a handful of coins. Paul nodded at him, and realizing he was a tourist, he helped him count out the correct change.

“Thank ya, young fella,” the man said in a Southern American accent.

“Where you from?” Paul asked.

“Charleston, South Carolina. Ever been?”

Paul shook his head. “Not me, but my lovely bride here is American.”

Marisol nearly choked on her drink.

“Are y’all newlyweds?” the woman asked.

“Yes ma’am, we’re on our honeymoon.” Paul smiled sweetly at Marisol. She finished coughing and raised an eyebrow at him. He shot her a wink.

“Well! Aren’t y’all the cutest things! Norm, aren’t they the cutest things?”

Norm and Betty of Charleston, South Carolina said they were celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary in England and revisiting where Norm was stationed in the war.

“Thirty years? Can’t have been,” Paul said. “What’s the secret?”

“Well, I’ll tell you what. One day “I’m in the Mood for Love” came on the radio and all I could see was her face. That’s how I knew she was the one for me,” Norm said.

Paul and Marisol exchanged smiles. “That would do it,” Paul said.

“We have fun,” Norm continued. “She’s April fooled me for years. She has more tricks up her sleeve than Carter’s has pills.”

Betty patted Marisol on the arm. “Separate bathrooms.” she suggested. “You don’t want to hear him gurgle his way through the theme song to Bonanza every morning. Guaranteed to start you off in a bad mood.”

Before they left, Norm handed Paul an American twenty dollar bill. “For you and your missus to help you get your start. You look like a fella who will go places.”

“I thank you kindly,” Paul said, tucking the twenty dollar bill into his pocket.

"Americans on holiday," Paul mused when they were alone again. "They're like friendly puppies, so informal. Ten seconds into the conversation they'll tell you anything."

“He really took a shine to you,” Marisol said.

“So your holiday is almost over." Paul rearranged himself on the stool, squeezing her knee between both of his. “What did you enjoy most about your stay in Britain?”

“Is this like a back-to-school essay on what I did over my summer vacation?”

He scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Yes. Play with me, love. I’m your professor, and we’re meeting for a drink to discuss your…assignment. Tell me about your holiday, Miss Hemingway.”

Marisol reached up and straightened his listing mustache. “You do rather look like a professor dressed up as a pirate. Okay. Professor…Professor Mc…”

“Yes, that’s right. McCartney.”

She leaned in, smiling at him. This could be fun. “Professor McCartney. So many things I loved about Britain.” She began listing them on her fingers. “The red phone boxes, Victorian lampposts, red mailboxes, all those functional things the British make somehow lovely. Double-decker buses, obviously. Helpful policemen and those ridiculous hats they wear. And that’s just London. Out in the country—the big pigeons outside my bedroom window that cooed nonstop. Lambs cavorting in meadows of buttercups. The cashier at the local teashop who said ‘tickety-boo’ as she gave me my change. And tea shops in general.”

“Yes, carry on.”

“And there’s this new sound there, I think they’re calling it the Mersey Beat. I liked that.”

Paul was nodding, a small smile tugging his lips. “Did you now. Did it excite you?”

“Oh yes. I’ll say it did.”

More drinks arrived. Paul touched his glass to hers and took a drink. ‘Tell me more about the people you met.”

She took a drink and smiled. “The British. I love them. I love the way they get so excited about toast. Every afternoon at tea time they see toast and their eyes light up with joy and I want to say, ‘C’mon, guys, it’s toast. It’s the same thing you had this morning.’ And the way they say ‘Sorry’ all the time. They say it when they bump into you, when you bump into them, or for no reason at all, really.”

“Yes, yes. Was there anyone special you met?”

She lowered her eyes and bit her lip, playing the part of the shy coed. “Actually, there was this one fellow…” She smiled and shook her head. “Oh, but I shouldn’t talk about that really.”

“No, no, do go on. Your writing so far seems a bit…lackluster. Perhaps this chap brightened things up a bit?

“You might say that. I came to England very unhappy, you see, and on my first day, I met someone. Someone who changed everything. In the blink of an eye, as it were.”

“Hmm.” He rubbed the condensation on his glass, “Sounds rather like a magician.”

“Oh, he was. Magic.”

Paul leaned in closer, an eyebrow raised. “Was he your lover?”

Her gaze fell to his mouth. They were close enough to kiss. “I’m happy to say he was.”

“I see. What was it he did that made you so happy?”

Paul sat very still, one hand barely cupping her elbow, while she whispered in his ear the magical things her English lover had done to her in bed. The things he'd done with his fingers, his lips, his tongue. The sounds he made when she took him into her mouth, and when…

She heard him groan and started to pull away. His grip tightened on her elbow. “Do continue.”

So she did. She told him how sometimes she would climb on top of him and guide him inside while he held her hips, but he always flipped her over onto her back and held himself up on his arms, his hands on either side of her head, looking down at her. He liked looking down their bodies, watching as he moved in and out of her. The look on his face would nearly push her over the edge and she would wrap her fingers in his hair and pull his head down next to hers so she could hear his ragged breaths in her ear and feel his chest against her breasts. She told him about the words her lover growled into her neck as he finished, words that she would remember when they weren't together, words that made her so hot for him she couldn’t think of anything else until she was with him again.

Marisol sat back, feeling flushed. Just talking about the things they’d done to each other made her pulse race and her breath hitch. She wanted to be alone with him, naked. Now. She wanted to be Mrs. Ramon on her honeymoon with her gorgeous husband with the big, dreamy bedroom eyes. She raised her gaze to his face. His heavy-lidded eyes were dark and seductive and totally focused on her. She felt like she could lose herself in those eyes. Her heart fluttered wildly just looking at him. She looked steadily back at him, hoping the way she was looking at him made him feel as wanted as the way he was looking at her.

Paul pulled her hand into his lap, holding tight to her fingers. “I can’t get up from this barstool, now, Miss Hemingway, because of what you’ve just done. You’ve made me quite aroused. You naughty, naughty girl.”

Her gaze went to his lap. “I didn’t mean to—“

"Oh, I think you did. I think you meant to do it, because I think you want me to take you back to my office and discuss your…work…in great detail. For the rest of the night.”

She held her breath, imagining him as a stranger, the idea of a one-night stand. Play with me, he’d said. ”I don’t usually do this sort of thing.” She closed her eyes, swallowed, and opened them again to find him smiling at her.

“I know.” His grin said, Except every time we’re together.

“It’s just that I’m very excited about your class.” She lowered her eyes again, twisting her hair around a finger. “In fact I was in such a hurry to meet with you tonight that I accidentally left my panties back at the hotel.”

Paul sat back, eyes wide. “You…you what?” His other hand dropped to her knee, his fingers teasing beneath the hem of her dress. "You never did."

Marisol nodded solemnly. ”I thought we'd be dining in."

He stared at her, wordlessly, his mouth slightly open. Marisol bit back a smile. It had taken three months, but she'd finally rendered him speechless. "I may have frostbite," she said with what she hoped was a worried frown. "You might have to do that thing you do where you put your tongue on my--"

“Christ." He stood abruptly, threw some bills onto the bar and grabbed their coats from the stool next to them.

They ran out in the luminous snow—now falling in great wet flakes—tripping and sliding over the cobblestones, and turned onto the main street across from Hyde Park. The street was oddly silent except for an occasional passing taxi and the whispering snow. In front of The Dorchester a monumental London Plane tree stood at the edge of a well-tended front garden, its branches fitted with numerous white bulbs which made the whole scene feel like some sort of adult fairyland.

An empty taxi passed with a Christmas carol blaring from the radio, and Paul began bellowing “Good King Wenceslas” in a posh voice. Past the row of Corinthian columns they giggled and stumbled, then composed themselves while a bellman in a dark green uniform held open an impressive mahogany door.

“After you, Mrs. Ramon,” Paul said grandly.

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Ramon,” Marisol answered, trying not to sound as drunk as she felt.

Laughing, they tumbled into an outrageously lavish lobby half-filled with hotel guests sitting on decorative chairs and sofas around a large fireplace. A trio of violinists played classical Christmas tunes. Heads turned to look at them with disapproving frowns.

“Your glasses!” Marisol gasped.

“Right you are, love, can’t see a thing without them!” Paul said, affecting a broad accent as he shoved the large glasses onto his face.

They dashed past a magnificent Christmas tree and into the lift, where they found themselves alone. Marisol removed Paul’s glasses once again and tucked them back into his coat pocket. She peeled off his mustache and pushed it into his other pocket. "There you are. My handsome British lover was under that pirate costume all along."

“You’re about to be plundered by this pirate, you sexy wench." Paul brushed a snowflake from her hair and kissed her. His lips were warm and insistent and tasted of ale. They were still kissing when the ding of a bell announced their floor, still kissing when the doors began to close again. His lips never left hers as he pulled her towards the front of the lift and stuck his arm between the closing doors.

“Fuck,” he whispered against her lips. “That fucking hurt.”

They held hands and raced down the corridor and crashed into the hotel room, laughing and falling onto the marble entryway. Paul unwrapped her coat and rolled her over, playfully checking for scrapes, kissing along her neck, her spine, the backs of her thighs. "You really aren't wearing knickers," he said between kisses. "You little vixen."

He pulled her to her feet and they shrugged off their coats and faced each other, panting. He began backing her into the room. The back of her legs hit the bed and she fell backwards. It felt like floating in a cloud.

He gripped her behind the knees and lifted her legs as he stood between them, running his hands down her red suede boots until he held the heels. He met her eyes, lifting a brow. "We'll leave these on, I reckon."

The rest of her he undressed with fingers and teeth and words pressed into her skin. She undressed him with far less finesse, so impatient she practically ripped his shirt from his back.

They crawled up to the pillows and he made love to her, kissing her just so, touching her exactly right, then he entered her and each slow, deep thrust seemed to steal a little more of her soul. With measured strokes he carried her along, teaching her the rhythm, the beat, the motion that met and matched his.

His mouth found hers and he kissed her, forever it seemed, and she kissed him back, telling him what she couldn’t say with words. Telling him with kisses that she was falling in love with him even as she was saying goodbye.

Afterward, she lay limp and boneless, feeling like something tossed upon the shore. Paul collapsed with his weight half on top of her, their arms and legs still entwined. His face was turned into the side of hers while they both caught their breath.

"Wow, Marisol Hemingway," he whispered raggedly. “I think you may have a bit of a wild streak yourself.”

Marisol couldn’t help smiling at the thought that she had managed to surprise him, if only a little. “Too much for you?”

His laugh was low and sexy. “I don’t know. I might need another few years of this to tell.”

He kissed his way down her body, lifted one of her legs, pulled off a boot and dropped it over the side of the bed, then repeated the process with other one. "These red boots are going to get you in trouble. You're not allowed to wear them with anyone else."

"You're the only pirate for me," she assured him.

He rolled onto his back with a sigh and pulled her close.

"I have to be on the road at the arse-crack of dawn. What time is your flight?"

"Just after eleven."

"I could have a car sent for you."

"No, it's okay, Margo will pick me up. My things are at her flat."

"You've said goodbye to your grandma?"

Marisol nodded wordlessly. Suddenly it was becoming all too real. She brushed at a tear.

"I like her. While you're away I think I'll be her surrogate grandson."

She felt her eyes welling. "Sshh. I don't want to talk about my grandma."

He held her tighter. "Don't cry, darling. You'll be back here before you know it."

She nodded, burrowing her face against his neck, even though she knew it wasn't true.

  
"Listen, love. I'm leaving one of Eppy's cards for you. Write to me at his office and address everything to Paul Ramon. That way it will get to me. If you need to reach me, call Eppy's secretary. Her name is Joanne. She can always get a message to me. I wrote Eppy's home number on the back of his card.”

“I’m to call Brian at home?” she asked, convinced she would never do that.

Paul sighed. “Brian gets 25% of everything I make. You can call him night or day, whenever you bloody want. Call whenever you want to get a message to me, or just to ask him what the weather is. Call collect. And I'll call you back as soon as I can. Okay love?"

She nodded, realizing Paul had no idea how hard it was to make a transatlantic call and how bad the reception could be. And how outrageously expensive it was. He'd find out soon enough.

“I guess that’s it,” he said softly.

Outside the window, snowflakes whirled. She watched the snow for a minute before she said quietly, "There is one other thing."

"What is it, love?"

"Neil told Angela that you jumped out of the tour bus one time and ran past a huge mob of fans for about a block and the bus driver had to catch up with you and you barely made it back inside."

He smiled. "Yeah. I was right tired of being all cooped up."

"I know, but, can you not do that again? You might have died."

"Every day, without fail, I won't do that," he promised.

She kissed him behind his ear for what could be the last time for who knew how long. Her tears left a damp spot on the pillow.

Paul kissed her temple, his hand splayed possessively across her breastbone. "I wish I'd met you before my life got loud," he whispered, just before his eyes closed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	20. This Bird Has Flown

Marisol slept like she been drugged. The room was still dark when she awoke, but she knew immediately she was alone. If Paul were still here he’d have a leg or an arm thrown over her, his weight on her somewhere. She dragged a hand over the cold sheets next to her, then fumbled for the bedside lamp.

On the pillow next to her was a note written on hotel stationery.

_Your holiday may be over, but our story continues. I’ll be here. Until next time— Paul. xxx_

Underneath the note was one of Brian Epstein’s business cards.

She stared at Paul’s writing until tears filled her eyes. That was it, then. She hadn’t even said goodbye to him, really. It had always seemed that there would be another chance. Why had he left without waking her up? Maybe he’d wanted to avoid the whole goodbye scene. Her shoulders slumped as she sat on the edge of the bed, tears hot on her cheeks. At the foot of the bed she noticed one of Paul’s white T-shirts, evidently left behind when he dressed in the dark to avoid waking her. She pressed it to her face, breathing in his scent, then folded it carefully and placed it in her bag along with Paul’s goodbye note and Brian’s card.

Then she picked up the telephone and waited for a hotel operator. She had just enough time to go back to Margo’s flat, finish packing, and hug the twins one more time. In another four hours she’d be winging her way home to California, and Paul and England would be only an exquisite, bittersweet memory.

 

The Pan Am 707 shook violently, engines screaming, then the pilot released the brakes and the jetliner thundered down the runway, easing off the ground ever so slowly before climbing steeply into the leaden grey sky. Marisol watched the snow-covered city of London receding below, the size of a postcard, now a postage stamp, now nothing but miles and miles of ocean between her and America.

The British Isles disappeared behind her, sunlight glinting off the silver wings and streaming into the airplane cabin. The gold bracelet Paul had brought her from Sweden sparkled in her lap. Colorful beetles marched around her wrist. _So you won't forget me_ , Paul had said. _As if._ The very thought of him dazzled her so much that she got short of breath wanting more of it. And yet she had given him up, chosen to leave. She’d been too scared to sacrifice her family and friends, her life in California, for the remote possibility that Paul might fall in love with her one day if she stayed in England.

For most of the day she would hang suspended in an aluminum tube as the miles zoomed by below, with little to do but come to terms with that decision and all the other choices she had made over the last few months.

Staring down at the endless ocean, she had the eerie sensation of moving backwards through time, erasing everything, so that when she got home it would all be gone, only a dream, and she would return the same heartbroken girl who had just lost her fiancé. But she knew that wasn’t true. She was different now—stronger, more resilient, and just the tiniest bit hopeful.

Her suitcase was waiting for her in baggage claim, spinning around on the carousel. It no longer looked as new. It was scratched and dinged in a few places as if it had been thrown about and dropped but still managed to hold together. It looked like she felt.

A hand dropped on her shoulder. “Sorry I’m late, Herman. How was the mother country?”

She spun around and grinned at her six-foot-two, sandy-haired brother Marcus. He’d called her Herman for years, a sort of deliberate mispronounced abbreviation of the Spanish word for sister. They embraced awkwardly. “Hey, it was great. Thanks for coming to get me.”

Marcus reached for her suitcase. “Jesus. What have you got in here? The crown jewels?”

“Batteries for my Geiger counter.”

“You’ll need ‘em. We had a trembler last month.”

Marisol stared at him. “That’s not what a Geiger counter is for.”

“Don’t be such a wise ass, or you can carry your own damn bag.”

“Okay, Marcus.” She wasn’t going to fight with her brother, not in the first ten minutes anyway. “How are the grapes?”

“Minding their own business, like they should. It’s December.”

“So what’s up? Anything new?” Marisol asked as they stepped out into the bright white California sunshine. She squinted and automatically rummaged in her handbag for her sunglasses. Surely she still owned sunglasses, even though they hadn't been on her face in three months. Evidently not. She shielded her eyes with one hand and followed Marcus to the car.

“Cookie got out yesterday and chased the mailman. That dog’s crazy, you know that. Mum said if you were gone one more day she was going to have her put down. Oh, and Calamity jumped the fence again and was wandering around in the grapes last week.”

“Maybe something scared her. it could’ve been a bear.”

“Nah, they should be hibernating.”

“She’s probably bored, she probably saw something shiny on the other side of the fence.”

“You better get her some horsey toys then. Took us 30 minutes to catch her and Dad gave her a good smack on the rump after she stepped on his foot.”

Marisol climbed into the car with a loud sigh. Calamity needed consistency and kindness, not a smack on the rump. It was a good thing she was home to see to the horses.

The radio was on, blaring surf music. She turned down the volume. “Have you ever heard of the Beatles?”

Marcus scrunched his nose in confusion. “The what?”

“It’s a British rock ’n’ roll group.”

Marcus laughed. “There’s no such thing as a British rock ’n’ roll group.”

Marisol shrugged. “If you say so.”

They merged onto the freeway and headed north toward the Golden Gate Bridge and the coastal mountains of Marin County.

Thirty minutes later they were speeding across the bridge over the icy ocean waters, the endless expanse of the Pacific on their left. No matter how many times she made the trip across, Marisol could never resist a look back at the beautiful white city rising delicately on its narrow peninsula. San Francisco was famously enchanting when wrapped in fog, but today it dazzled in the sunlight.

The mighty orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge cast an enormous shadow "H" on the rugged Marin headlands. It stands for "home" her father used to say, when he was feeling particularly corny.

“It’s about time you got home," Marcus was saying. "We’re backed up at the winery with Christmas orders, so as soon as you can get down there and lend a hand, that would be great.”

She looked over at her brother with a wry smile. In some ways it felt as if she’d never been away.

 

“Shall I make you a hair appointment?” was the first thing her mother said when she saw her.

"I'll take care of it," Marisol said with a sigh. Some things never changed.

"You look different," her mother said, examining her with narrowed eyes. Her mother was a slender blonde in the Grace Kelly mold and expected her daughters to be red carpet ready at all times. At least that's how it felt to Marisol.

"If by different you mean pale and wind-chapped," she responded.

"She looks like a wild Irish rose," her father said, giving Marisol's shoulder a squeeze on his way out the door.

"Ease up, Mother, I've been flying for a day."

"You look...softer somehow. Have you been eating out a lot?”

Marisol sighed. It was already starting. "Yes, Mother. There is not a single scone left in the entire UK. That's why I came home. I ate everything. Do we have any scones, by the way?"

Her mother stepped closer, frowning. "When did your breasts get that size?"

Marisol took two steps back. "Time to see to the horses,” she said, practically running out of the house.

There’s no place like home.

  
That night Marisol’s mother made her favorite meal of Coq au vin, a chicken dish that was made with mushrooms and their very own red wine.

Marisol barely made it through dinner. It was already 2 AM in England and she’d been up for 20 hours. She was helping with the dishes, but fading fast. The evening news blared from the next room, and Marisol could hear snatches of Walter Cronkite’s broadcast over the sound of her father and Marcus discussing the family business.

The Warren Commission was investigating the Kennedy assassination…a Pan Am 707 jet had exploded from a lightning strike over Maryland, killing all onboard…Frank Sinatra Jr. had been kidnapped from his hotel room at Lake Tahoe…

Nothing but bad news after bad news. Great to be back in America.

Marcus and their father headed down to the winery, leaving the television blaring. Marisol put away the last plate and yawned loudly. Time for bed. Past time for bed, because she was so deliriously tired that she was hallucinating. Her brain was so fried that it sounded like the Beatles were singing _Yeah Yeah Yeah_ in her living room. What in the hell?

She reached the living room just as her mother was bending over to turn off the television. “STOP!” Marisol bellowed like a wounded moose.

It _was_  Paul, in her living room, singing from the stage in Bournemouth. This was the footage she had watched being filmed, back in the middle of November. There he was, in black and white, meeting Princess Margaret, jumping out of a police van, flashing a smile as he raced into the Winter Gardens Theatre and now on a tiny couch wedged shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the Beatles for an interview in their dressing room. It was surreal, standing in California seeing Paul and hearing his voice, her two separate worlds colliding. He looked gorgeous and poised and made for TV, even if he did seem a little more subdued than usual.

Marisol dropped to her knees in front of the television, mesmerized. It had been their first U.S. interview, and the boys were handling it quite differently from their typical interviews with the British press. None of their usual “taking the mickey” and clowning around. You could tell this was important to them.

Her heart was in her throat as she watched Paul thoughtfully and soberly answering the reporter’s questions. He’d filmed this interview and who knew how many others, performed two flawless shows, and come back to the hotel and called Marisol his girl and asked her to stay in England. And she’d said no. Because she must have been out of her goddamned mind. Already she missed him so much it was hard to breathe.

She needed someone to talk to about it right now, but there was no one in this country who even knew who Paul was. Her parents didn't know she’d fallen for a musician in England. They’d never believe it. She’d left here four months ago completely broken over Dan. It was inconceivable that any British boy could come along and sweep her away in only four months, making her forget how to be sad, teaching her heart to fall in love again. But Paul had done just that.

“What on earth are you about?” her mother was standing behind her with her hands on her hips.

"Ssshh!" Marisol hissed. Walter Cronkite was still talking about the Beatles, saying the clip originally aired two weeks ago, but he thought Americans were ready for a break from the difficult news of the past few weeks and decided to air it again. “This is Walter Cronkite, and that’s the way it is.”

Marisol turned off the television, got up from the floor and brushed herself off. “Sorry, Mom. That band…they’re friends of mine.”

“Well for heaven’s sake, Marisol. Do try to control yourself.”

 

 

Cookie danced along beside her as Marisol walked down the hall to her bedroom. _We're walking? Yay walking! I love walking!_ That was the soundtrack she imagined was in Cookie’s head. Her destiny, herding sheep, was unfulfilled. She had to make do with herding all of the other dogs, horses and humans.

Suddenly wide awake, Marisol was on a mission. She unlatched her suitcase, pushing Cookie’s inquisitive nose away. There on the top of her clothes she was surprised to see two crayon drawings. She smiled at the picture of a tall yellow-haired stick figure holding the hands of two smaller yellow-haired stick figures. That had to be from Sophie. The other drawing was a mad scramble of multi-colored whorls. A note from Margo on the back explained it: "Aunt Mari and Lucy on the merry-go-round."

Under the drawings she found what she was looking for: Paul's soft white T-shirt. She took it out now and brought it to her face. It still smelled like England and Paul and hopefulness and second chances. She undressed down to her underwear and pulled the T-shirt over her head. Then she sat on her bed with a pen and a box of air mail stationery and began a letter.

 

 _Paul, my love,_  
_I have realized, somewhat belatedly, that I am in love with you. I miss you. I can't sleep. Please forego that silly dream of fame and fortune and leave that gloomy little island you so love and come to California. I know a little Irish coffee bar where you can sing and play your guitar. It’s in the City between Golden Gate Park and the zoo, only a block from the seashore. I'm sure you will soon have a large following here. And we'll find the sheepdog you’ve always wanted. You'll love the City, even in the fog, and when you cross the bridge to come home to me, you'll see the sun is always shining. Love always, M._

 

She chewed the end of her pen for a moment, rereading the words and trying to imagine what Paul would think if he ever saw them. He'd think she was crackers, that's what. She _was_ crackers, clearly. She wadded up the page and threw it in the vicinity of a trash can. Cookie looked up, then put her head back down on her paws with a sigh.

Marisol began the real letter.

 

_Dear Paul,_

  
_It's good to be back home, but bittersweet because I left so many people I care about in England. Friends, family, and a lover. My heart feels like it's gone a couple of rounds with Cassius Clay. Beat up and battered, in other words._

_But the sun was shining today and the dogs have forgiven me for the most part and the horses are healthy. My dad is occasionally funny but mostly corny and my brother can be kind of a jerk but he means well and my mother still looks at me as if she suspects the hospital mixed up the babies the day I was born. Which is to say, everything is exactly as I left it. The thing that has changed is ME. And that is mostly because of you._

_The gods smiled on me that day in September when they put me in your path, and I have been smiling back ever since. I'm stronger, and wiser, and ‘smilier’, all because of you._

_Oh, by the way, you were on television tonight. Soon everyone in America will love you, but tonight I'm curled up in my bed in your T-shirt, thinking about you, content to know that I'm probably the first girl in California to love you._

_Remember you promised to be safe and not be crazy._

_Bye baby. I miss you already. Love, M._

 

The next week was so busy Marisol hardly had time to breathe. There were phone messages that her parents and the housekeeper had written down and months of mail to sort through. The local humane society wanted her to record a radio spot for them, something to remind people to spay and neuter their pets. Her friend Donna wanted her to call the instant she got home so they could go Christmas shopping in the City. It was time to register for school, the horses needed feed and the dogs needed vaccinations. Her father and Marcus needed her full time in the winery, answering the phone, opening mail, and packing and shipping Christmas orders.

Donna showed up late Saturday morning as Marisol was walking back from the horse barn. Marisol rushed up the drive and into a mass of tan arms and wild blonde hair. “I missed you so much!” she said, holding on to her friend as if it had been years instead of four months.

“You’re never leaving again!” Donna said.

They stumbled into the house, a jumble of tears and laughter, and Marisol led the way to the family room where they could talk. She turned to see Donna sizing her up.

“You look different,” Donna said.

Marisol rolled her eyes. “Here we go again. Have you had the scones in England? They’re really good. I have firsthand information.”

“No, You look sexier or something…more feminine. Definitely happier. And your boobs, too.”

Marisol laughed. “My boobs were happy in England, thank you very much. My boobs and I spent a lot of time eating scones and waiting for the phone to ring.” She walked to the bar. “Is it too early for a glass of wine?”

“You’re my only friend who lives at a winery. Do you think I only came here to see your rack?”

“Good. Because I want to play you some new music and then I have a story for you, and I’m going to need a drink first. And it’s cocktail time in England.”

They settled on the sofa, sipping Sauvignon Blanc while Beatles music played softly in the background. Marisol held the cover of _With the Beatles_ in her lap.

“So,” Donna began. “How was England?”

Marisol took a deep breath. Donna’s father was a movie scriptwriter, a big time man about town in Hollywood. Her parents were divorced, and she lived in Sonoma with her artist mother, but Donna still spent summers in Hollywood. She’d grown up with people like Jack Lemmon and Debbie Reynolds showing up for barbecues in the backyard of her father’s Bel-Air mansion. Nothing about this story would phase her.

The words tumbled out. She told Donna about meeting Paul, the sunlight of him, the way he’d made her feel from the first moment she’d met him. She told her how at first all she’d wanted was to stop crying over Dan, but she’d ended up finding a relationship with Paul that she hadn’t wanted to give up.

She skipped about 97% of the sex. She shared a lot with her best friend Donna, but really, 3% of the sex details was more than enough for her to get the picture.

She tried to convey the craziness of Paul’s life—the constant travel, the hundreds of girls in every city who would stop at nothing to have sex with him, the way she’d become afraid for his safety and for her own if she stayed with him. She tried to explain the phenomenon of Beatlemania: “Imagine four Elvis Presleys onstage at once, only a hundred times sexier.”

She told Donna about Cynthia’s unhappiness and how the other Beatles’ girlfriends had been spit on and attacked. And then she pointed out how scared it made her when she thought about how her Papa Hemingway had left his first wife, Marisol’s grandmother, soon after he became famous and women began chasing after him. “They loved each other very much, they both told me that. And it wasn’t enough.”

When she’d finished, she went to her room and brought back a stack of photographs of the boat trip with Paul and a few other pictures Angela had snapped of him. She waited while Donna flipped through the photos.

“Honey.” Donna put her hand on Marisol’s arm. “Paul sounds good…”

“He is good,” Marisol agreed.

“It sounds like he’s been good for you. Do you think maybe you’re overstating the Beatlemania thing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, being famous in England is hardly the same thing as being famous here. I’ve never heard of them. I’ve never heard of any British band, come to that.”

Marisol shook her head slowly. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Donna leaned back and studied her for a beat. “If that’s the case, I don’t see you as someone who would ever want to be famous. In fact, I think you tend to shy away from all that.”

Marisol drew her legs up to her chest. “When Papa died, and all the reporters showed up here? And we couldn’t even go outside the gates without them asking how we felt about how he died? That was one of the worst experiences of my life.”

Donna nodded. “In any case, you shouldn’t move to Europe for a guy you’ve only known a few months, not at our age. Coming back home is the best thing right now. You need to be away from the…the magic of him, and figure everything out. Like, are your feelings going to last, and can you deal with him being famous.”

Marisol blew out a breath of air, feeling like a huge weight had been lifted. Maybe coming home had been the right thing to do after all. Maybe she and Paul both needed time and clarity. In a couple of months, if they still felt as strongly about each other as they did when she left, that had to mean something.

 

At the end of the week the first letter from Paul arrived. Then they began arriving consistently, every other day, or sometimes three in a day. At first he wrote long newsy letters, full of stories from the road and reports of the marvelous things that lay ahead for the group. A few days before Christmas she could tell that Paul had received at least her first letter sent to Brian's office and was responding. And calling her "Darling girl." She read this letter over and over again, practically swooning:

 

_Darling girl,_

  
_So that's where my T-shirt is. Imagining you sleeping in it should set the stage for some interesting dreams tonight. Last night I had a dream involving a girl who looked and smelled and sounded much like you. Very good time was had by all. I think she’ll call me back. Will your parents see this letter? Just in case, the things I really want to say to you will be in Norwegian from this point on._

_So the gods of fate put you in my path, you say. Are these the same gods who took you away again? I'd like a word with them. I once asked God every night for thirty days to bring my mother back. He didn't, so I stopped believing. I'll happily pray for another thirty days if it will bring you back. Please advise._

_I don't know if you recall that fledgling beat group I was singing with? We're still pounding the pavement, and our manager is still hauling away paper bags full of cash each night when we roll out of town, in hopes that Her Majesty is none the wiser (or richer)._

_On the off chance that no one has told you this yet today: you are sweet and smart and lovely and will forever be the only California girl for me._

_All my love, Paul. xxx_

 

At the bottom of the letter was a postscript written in a foreign language she'd never seen before but Paul had hinted at Norwegian, so she spent an hour at the public library searching for a Norwegian to English translation guide to unearth this loosely translated epic bit of poetry:

_P.S. You fill my heart with flowers, love songs, and the need to tie you down and fuck you senseless._

For the rest of that day she’d been unable to think of anything but Paul, and being tied down, and she couldn't keep the goofy smile from her face. Who would have thought he could still make her smile from 5,000 miles away?


	21. Christmas Time Is Here Again

"What the hell kind of accent is that?” Marisol's father said, holding the telephone receiver behind his back.

It was Christmas morning, and Marisol hadn't been awake enough to beat her father to the phone. It was agony, bouncing up and down on her toes while her father said inane things into the phone like "who is this again?" and "McCartney you say?"

"Dad, please, it's costing him a fortune, give it to me!"

“I’ve never heard anything like that accent in my life. I think he swore at me, and I just said, ‘Fine, thank you,’ because I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.”

“Just give me the phone.” She bit off the words, her heart racing.

“All right, beautiful?” Paul said, in his amazing, deep, melodious voice. “Are you still my girl?”

 _Oh my god_. “You know I am.” Her smile was so wide she could barely speak.

“Good girl.”

“Merry Chris—“ she started to stay, then stopped because they were talking over each other.

“You go first,” he said, laughing.

“I just wanted to say Merry Christmas, and it’s really good to hear your voice.”

“Merry Christmas, beautiful. Did Santa bring you everything you wanted?”

She laughed. “Hardly. What about you?”

“Not a chance. But I’m still hopeful for Valentine’s Day, because guess what?”

“What?” she asked, holding her breath.

“I may just be in America for Valentine’s Day.”

“Really?” Her breath came out in a rush. Valentine's Day. Seven weeks away.

“And if I am, I’ll be looking for a Valentine, so if you know anyone…I think you know the sort of girl I’m looking for—”

“I miss you.” She couldn’t stop herself from blurting it out. She wasn’t sure if he even heard it. It was so difficult adjusting to the long pauses on a trans-Atlantic call.

“Ah. Well I miss you too.”

Paul’s beautiful voice sounded like it was coming from a submarine inside a tunnel in a cave on the ocean floor, backed up by a steady hiss.

“Was it difficult getting through today?”

“You might say that. I had to schedule the call with an international operator and wait around an hour for the New York exchange to free up.”

“Where are you? Are you with your Dad?”

“Yeah. We flew home to Liverpool this morning. Wish you were here. It’s a pretty day, actually. We’re about to ride motor bikes along the Mersey out to Halewood. Flying back to London tomorrow. The Christmas show runs for another three weeks, and then Paris.”

“And then America.”

“And then America,” he repeated. “If they’ll have us.”

"I heard “I Want to Hold Your Hand” last week on the radio here!"

It was surreal, having lunch with Donna in a Chinese restaurant in downtown San Francisco and hearing the Beatles singing on a transistor radio beside the cash register. Then they'd gone across the street to do some Christmas shopping. Macy’s had a window display featuring animatronic children twirling around a Christmas tree, a record player at their feet spinning a tiny copy of “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” Marisol couldn't believe her eyes.

"Yeah? The release date is tomorrow, Boxing Day,” Paul was saying. "Capitol Records had to speed it up because some radio stations got copies from England and started playing it."

Marisol pressed the phone harder to her ear. It was so hard to hear him. “This must be costing a fortune.”

“Yeah, my Dad will probably have to sell the house to pay for it, but you know what? I’m buying him another one, so it’s all good.”

"Did you get your present from me?" Marisol asked anxiously. "Brian's secretary told me to send it to Liverpool. 20 Forthlin Road."

Marisol had sent him a handmade leather guitar strap embossed with “Macca 63”, a bag of See’s chocolate lollipops and a box full of new album releases including the new Bob Dylan and the first album by the Kingsmen, a group from Portland whose song “Louie, Louie” was racing up the charts.

"I did! Thank you, love! The guitar strap is gear. It’s on my acoustic already. And I’ve played “Louie Louie” a dozen times. Someone yells 'fuck!' just before the second verse, did you notice that?"

"What? That never happened."

"You need better speakers. That's what Santa will bring you next year. But you'll be in London, listening to mine, won't you?"

Marisol's brother bustled through the front door just then, bringing a shopping bag full of presents and a blast of chilly air. "Brrrr," he said, stamping his feet. He stopped and looked at Marisol. “What are you up to, Herman? You look positively giddy."

Marisol gave him a distracted wave before tugging the phone cord as far as it would go and backing into the coat closet, pulling the door closed. "Merry Christmas to you too!" she heard her brother yell as she sank down underneath the coats with the phone pressed to her ear.

"That sounds wonderful," she said to Paul. "I love the sweater you sent. I'm wearing it right now. And the Beatles gifts are adorable. You're a good gift giver. And the photograph...amazing."

Earlier in the week she'd received a package from England: a hand knit cream-colored Irish fisherman's sweater, so warm and cozy she never wanted to take it off, a plastic Paul McCartney doll holding a bass guitar, a box of candy called Ringo Rolls, and a framed 8 x 10 photograph of Paul and Marisol cuddling on the boat on the Thames. When she saw it her heart jolted. They looked so happy. Paul was flushed; he'd been getting over his cold. They were looking at each other like no one else existed and they hadn’t a care in the world. There was a card inside the box that read "I hope next Christmas I can deliver your gift in person. All my love, Paul xxx"

"We look good together, we do," Paul was saying. The hissing on the line was becoming unbearable. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, but barely.” It started to sound like the call would drop any minute. “Tell Neil and everyone Merry Christmas for me and stay safe—“

“What’s that? Aw fuck…I can’t hear you, love…”

“I just said Merry Christmas to everyone and—“

She could only hear fragments of words now. “Going…time…me dad…”

Nothing but crackling. _Shit_.

“Merry Christmas, love, I—“ and the call was dropped.

Marisol sat on the floor for a moment with the phone in her lap. She wondered again if she'd done the right thing leaving England, not that she had a lot of choice in the matter. It was so hard not getting to talk to Paul or see him. It felt like a piece of her heart stayed behind in England. But school would be starting soon, and Margo and the twins would be back in Northern California in only a few weeks. it was bound to get easier.

Cookie was whimpering on the other side of the closet door. Marisol opened it to find her mother standing with her hands on her hips. "For god's sake Marisol. What on earth are you doing? I need to use the telephone.”

Marisol replaced the receiver with a sigh.

“Who were you talking to in the closet?”

“I met a boy in England. He’s very nice. That was him on the phone.”

“In Sussex?” her mother asked, a suspicious frown on her face. “Does your grandmother know him?”

“Well…yeah, now she does.”

“Don’t say yeah, say yes.”

“He’s from Liverpool originally,” Marisol said, then regretted it immediately. Apparently once she started talking about Paul she was unable to stop.

Her mother made a scoffing sound. “Liverpool? There's nothing there but thugs and dock workers. Does he work on the docks?”

“Yes, that’s right Mother. He loads ships, when he's not locked up in the slammer.”

“Don’t be cheeky. It’s not safe in Liverpool.”

“Ay ma, calm down! Derr’s no need like for ya to be callin’ dem Scousers names like dat…” Marisol was quite proud of herself for how Liverpudlian she sounded. At least to her own ears.

“How attractive. That’s the last we’ll be hearing of that talk, one would hope.”

Her mother picked up the phone. “Now that you’re ‘out of the closet’ and the line is free, let’s ring the most beautiful babies in London and wish them Merry Christmas.”

Marisol smiled. That was something they could both agree on.


	22. I Want to Hold Your Hand

_“Multiply Elvis Presley by four, subtract six years from his age, add British accents and a sharp sense of humor. The answer: It’s the Beatles (Yeah,Yeah, Yeah)” — The New York Times, February 9, 1964_

 

The release of "I Want to Hold Your Hand" in America was like a technicolor explosion. Americans had never heard anything like it. There were no rock groups with multiple singers, and especially no groups using multiple _electric guitars_. The Beatles sound was exotic, sexual, full of climaxes and screams. It was like an earthquake. Suddenly Beatles music was everywhere.

Paul still wrote to Marisol regularly and in mid-January he called her from Paris, in the middle of the night Paris time. Brian had received a telegram from Capitol Records. "I Want to Hold Your Hand" was No. 1 on the American charts. The timing could not be more perfect for them to appear on _The Ed Sullivan Show_ in early February.

Marisol held her breath, wondering if she would be able to see him in New York. ”How long are you staying?" 

"I dunno, Bri is arranging for us to film the show in Miami as well."

“Miami? You’ll love it. My grandfather had a home in Key West, three hours away. My father has been flying down there, cataloging everything. It's going to be a museum."

"Can you come to Miami then?"

"Of course." Marisol breathed a sigh of relief. She would see him in Miami! In three weeks. Even though she had classes all that week. She’d figure something out. ”You’re going to love it there."

"I'm going to love _you_ there," Paul promised, and Marisol felt like someone had stolen her breath.

There was whooping and laughter in the background. “Shurrup!” Paul growled to someone. Now it sounded like he was phoning from a soccer match under the ocean.

“It sounds like the celebration has started without you.”

“Oh, we’re celebrating, all right. With furniture jumping, and milk, in case the American press wants to know. The milk is freely flowing. And Malcolm just took me for a ten minute piggy back ride around our suite while I was waiting for an international operator.”

Marisol laughed at the ridiculous image. “Send pictures please. How have the shows been in Paris?”

“All right. You know how Paris is. If the Germans and the English like something, the French think there must be something wrong with it. We’ll grow on them. We’ve written a new song. We're in a marvelous suite at the George V and they brought up a grand piano. I write better on expensive pianos, did you know that? ”Money Can't Buy Me Love" is the working title."

It was harder and harder to hear him. Marisol had the phone clamped to her ear so hard it hurt and the other ear covered with her palm. "It can buy me a ticket to Miami though, that's close enough,” she said.

It sounded like he laughed. "See you soon, love! I’ll ring you soon from America.” And he was gone.

 

Donna came roaring up the driveway one afternoon in late January in her little MGA Roadster and jumped out of the car waving a copy of a music trade magazine she’d picked up in Los Angeles. The Beatles had accounted for 60% of all record sales in the states since the new year began. Capitol’s pressing plants were so overburdened they outsourced production to RCA and Columbia for help in meeting the demand for Beatles discs.

“I believe you now,” she said. "There actually is such a thing as a Beatle. Let’s celebrate. Got any wine?”

“You’ve come to the right place.” Marisol grabbed Donna’s hand as they ducked down to the cellar to see what was left of the reserves after the Christmas rush.

 

Marisol spent a good part of the first week of February daydreaming through her classes and tossing and turning in bed at night, constant butterflies in her stomach. She didn’t think she could be more anxious if she were making a national TV debut herself.

The arrival of the Beatles at New York’s newly named JFK airport made the evening news. Marisol switched between the three major networks, catching snatches of all of the news reports. It was pandemonium at the airport as the Beatles descended the air stairs, grinning madly and waving at a jubilant crowd. They were rushed into a press conference at the airport, the Beatles in great spirits, quick-witted and fun, easily charming several hundred hardened New York journalists. One reporter said after meeting the Beatles at the press conference, he was writing an entirely different story than the one he first intended to write.

There was film from outside the Plaza Hotel where fans were holding vigil, singing and waving signs and screaming with wild abandon any time a hotel guest appeared near a window. And there was an interview with a frazzled hotel manager who claimed to have had no idea who the British guests were who had booked the entire twelfth floor of the Plaza. Thinking they were businessmen, the hotel was unprepared when they were descended upon by thousands of teenagers, and they were forced to call in scores of private security guards at the last minute.

Paul phoned from New York late that first night, euphoric with adrenaline, apparently unable to sleep. “American radio, Mari, it’s incredible! It’s like having a juke box at your fingertips! You know there’s only the stodgy BBC in Britain, and they never play what we want to hear. I’m listening to Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, and every third song is a _Beatles_ record!”

Marisol could only laugh as Paul continued, awestruck. "We each have a TV set blaring in our rooms and a radio with earphones,” he added. “This is livin.’ I love this place, America!”

“I love this place too,” Marisol said, “because I can finally hear you! You sound within touching distance!”

“Soon, love. Very soon.” Paul told her about the scene at the airport, and how the Beatles were given transistor radios and driven in four separate luxury Cadillacs to the Plaza. “A Cadillac for each Beatle!” he said with amazement. He had spent his journey spinning the dial on his radio and hearing his voice from almost every station he landed on. It was complete saturation. “I could hear them sayin’ ‘they’ve left the airport, now they’re merging on the freeway, they’re approaching the Plaza’…it was surreal, Mari! It’s like the greatest fantasy come true!”

It wasn’t all good news though. John was known to suffer occasional bouts of stage fright, and he had been sick with nerves for most of the flight into New York. They had decided to open the first Ed Sullivan show with numbers featuring Paul as lead singer until John got his “sea legs,” Paul told her. And suddenly George had gotten sick. It started with nausea on the plane, which they attributed to nerves, but by the end of the night a doctor was summoned and George was sent to bed with a high fever and throat infection, barely able to speak.

Marisol hummed with concern. “My god. What are you going to do without George?”

“I dunno, Mari. He has a couple of days to get better but he’s going to miss the rehearsals and press conferences, all that lot. And the Playboy Club.”

Marisol laughed. “Well that’s a crying shame.”

They talked for an hour, or rather Paul talked, and Marisol listened and laughed and commiserated. When they hung up, her head was buzzing.

The Beatles were pros at performing in front of a live audience, and being on the BBC was becoming old hat by now. But this particular live performance meant everything to them. It would be the first time America would see the Beatles. Their futures were riding on how well they did that night, so they believed. After talking to Paul, between John’s uneasiness and George’s illness, Marisol was on pins and needles wondering how this would all turn out.

 

At last the big night arrived. Ed Sullivan opened the show by telling the audience the Beatles had received a telegram from Elvis and Colonel Tom Parker wishing them success. “Tonight the whole country is waiting to hear England’s Beatles, and you’re going to hear them, and they’re tremendous ambassadors of goodwill, after this commercial.”

Marisol sat impatiently through the commercials for shaving cream and shoe polish, saying “Ssshh! Here they come,” every few seconds. Margo had driven from Travis Air Force Base with the twins to have dinner and watch the show with her. Their parents also were interested in this boy who had their daughter and much of England “all in a dither.” Finally Ed was back, saying, “The city has never witnessed the excitement brought about by these youngsters from Liverpool who call themselves the Beatles!”

The camera panned over the audience. showing the reaction of the crowd as the curtains swished open and they glimpsed the Beatles before the viewers at home saw them. Their faces lit up with joyous abandon, open-mouthed, vibrating with excitement, hands clasped, clutched to hearts, covering their mouths, clapping, waving.

And suddenly there they were, in her living room, tiny figures on the black and white television. Paul, George and John arranged in front, with Ringo and his kit behind them on an elevated dais. A stage set of arrows pointed to the group. As if to say, 'They are HERE!' As if your eyes needed any help in focusing on the four beautiful, slender boys in their crisp dark suits and white shirts and ties. Paul’s countdown “One two three FOUR!” sent them launching into “All My Lovin.”

The instant she saw the looks on their faces, Marisol’s nervousness turned into a sort of delighted pride. John wore a rare huge grin, not a trace of nerves, smiling across the stage at Paul and shouting a jubilant “Yeah!” at the end of Paul’s first line of the song. Ringo stared around the studio with wide-eyed, happy amazement. George allowed a lop-sided smile to sneak across his face before composing his features into his typically unruffled expression, the very epitome of cool. And Paul: supremely confident, having the time of his life, head bobbing, singing and smiling at once, eyes darting all around the theatre, making eye contact with fans from the front rows to the top of the balcony, soaking in every second of the adoration of his first American crowd.

Why had she thought anything would rattle him? He was a born performer, completely in his element. They were seasoned professionals who’d played together like this in front of live audiences a thousand times, and it showed.

"Christ." She heard her father commenting from his easy chair. Not taking her eyes from the screen, Marisol crawled past three lounging dogs on her way to the TV to turn up the volume. She couldn’t stop staring at Paul, but she wanted to look at John, and see what George and Ringo were doing too, and it was agony knowing she was only going to get to see this once.

“Now which of these beatniks is the one you fancy?” her mother was saying.

“Ssshhh Mother, not now,” Marisol hissed.

“The bouncy one on the end,” Margo explained. “The cute little left-handed bass player.”

“The singer? Hmm. Well he’s not as big as a minute.”

Marisol sat immediately in front of the television, in awe, cupping her hands behind her ears in an effort to hear Paul over the sound of her family’s constant commentary. Another shot of the crowd screaming, panting, pulling at their hair, and her mother said, “Marisol. You’re acting just like those demented teenagers. Over a silly, scrawny boy.”

“Are they still on war rations in England? Did they lose all the barbers to the draft?” Her father laughed loudly at his own jokes.

Marisol shot him a pleading look and waved a hand at him. “Sssshhhh!”

Then Lucy slid off the couch and ran to the television, putting her palm on the screen and almost covering Paul. She bounced up and down, looking from Marisol to the television and saying “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Marisol dragged her niece into her lap. “I know sweetie, we know him. Let's not touch him any more.”

Lucy struggled out of her grasp and reclaimed a spot in front of the television. She wiggled her bottom and bounced in time to the music and Sophie soon joined her, twirling in front of the set.

 _Good Lord_ , Marisol thought, wishing there was some way to make them all disappear for only an hour. She would never get the chance to see this performance again in her lifetime and they were all ruining it.

Her parents and the twins all seemed to settle down when the first song ended with a synchronized bow and Paul launched smoothly into the ballad “Til There Was You.” There he stood, oozing sincerity and that boyish charm that he had perfected as an art form, and he played it for all it was worth. Even Marisol’s parents were speechless when Paul flipped this particular switch.

Margo sat on the floor beside Marisol and pulled the twins down onto their bottoms. “They are killing it,” she whispered reverently.

“I know it,” Marisol whispered back. “I’m so happy…and scared.” She was a jumble of emotions she couldn’t even put into words. Paul…and the Beatles…were going to be bigger than Elvis. This was happening.

The crowd erupted in screams as the camera lingered on each of Beatles, with their names in white letters flashing across the screen to help identify them for the American audience. Underneath John’s name was this: “sorry girls, he’s married.” _Brian is going to have a stroke when he sees that,_ Marisol thought. He wanted all of his boys to appear available.

Another synchronized bow and Paul spun on his heel and spooled his arm at Ringo, who pounded the intro and led them into “She Loves You, Yeah Yeah Yeah.”

“Hell’s bells, what is this crap?” Marisol heard her father say.

This time Margo turned and shushed their father.

Positioned in their classic stage pose, guitars held high on their chests, they belted out "and you know you should be glad, ooooooooo!" followed by a decisive shake of their beautiful hair. And the crowd went wild.

The Beatles finished their first set flawlessly and Ed Sullivan looked clearly relieved. For the first time since Paul left London, Marisol felt she could relax. Margo was right, they killed it. Paul would be thrilled. The audience adored them. The reviews were bound to be overwhelmingly positive. With one eye on the television, she played with the twins, tickling and wrestling and laughing, so happy for Paul that she could barely contain it.

The Beatles returned for their second set looking even more relaxed, cutting loose with heads shaking and primal screams and boots stomping to “I Saw Her Standing There.” There was Ed Sullivan looking like an undertaker, and then the Beatles who came across the screen so vibrant and exuberant and looking so different with their hairstyles, the four button suits, the boots. They could have dropped in from Mars.

True to form, Marisol’s mother picked this moment for a philosophical conversation about dating. “I can’t understand why you would want to compete for that boy’s attention when there are plenty of young men right here in California who would only have eyes for you.”

Marisol couldn’t let that go by without comment. “I’m not competing with anyone, Mother. He calls, I answer the phone. He writes, I write back. Kind of like when you and Dad dated, only we actually like each other.”

Margo’s mouth made a surprised O and their mother raised her chin and swept out of the room. Marisol would have to apologize later, but at least now there was one less person talking in the background as she watched the Beatles close their set with their huge break out hit in America, “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” The boys kicked into overdrive, wringing every ounce of energy from their hit that delivered on the promise of something thrilling. The camera cut to the crowd, showing row after row of young girls in the grips of ecstasy.

Ed Sullivan called the Beatles over to shake hands. Seeing Paul looking so relieved and adorable nearly broke her heart. _Miami,_ she kept reminding herself. She would be holding him, kissing him soon.

It was a sleepless night. She’d been so sure Paul would call after the show. There was so much she wanted to say to him. No doubt he was busy celebrating their success. They deserved it. They had worked for years for this night. She couldn’t reach him by phone so she wrote to him instead, a letter she wouldn’t mail, telling him how proud she was of him. Still unable to sleep, she pulled out a suitcase and began packing it full of sundresses. Miami. Hell yes.

The next morning on Marisol’s college campus, in the student union building, in the canteen, in the hallways and in the classrooms, _everyone_ was talking about the Beatles. The professors, the janitors, the secretaries and students were talking about the Beatles at the top of their lungs. Not just the girls. Boys were saying things like “they’re tough, they have guts, an attitude. They don’t give a f—- what the oldsters say about their hair or their yeah yeah yeahs.”

The boys were impressed that the Beatles were clearly playing live and not lip synching, because they sounded different from their records. And they were playing “au naturel” without relying on studio bands to back them up, the way most artists did when they appeared on television. Words like “hip,” “intense,” and “unself-conscious" were bandied about.

“The girls want to rip their clothes off, and they’re making tons of money,” Marisol’s young Sociology professor announced to the class. “I want a job like that.”

Marisol floated through the day with a secret smile on her lips. It was like a jolt to her heart every time she heard them mentioned. And she heard it all day long, and again on the radio on her drive home. The Beatles weren't rock stars to start with, but they knew they were special. Liverpool figured it out, followed by Brian Epstein and George Martin, then all of England, and now the rest of the world had fallen under their spell. Their sound was fresh, energetic and innovative, a welcome relief from the sugary sweet American ballads. Their joint dream was coming true, right before Marisol’s eyes.

 

Paul called early that evening after a day of press conferences and photograph sessions at the Plaza Hotel. He said he was happy with the Ed Sullivan show performance except for a few things. He had wanted to say something to the American audience, to thank American fans everywhere for making their visit so great and giving them such a wonderful welcome. Ed said absolutely no speaking. They were to perform only, no speeches. And John’s microphone was accidentally off during one of the first songs, which unbalanced the number.

Marisol assured him that the sight of them with their glorious hair and winning smiles and sleek tailored suits was enough to enrapture audiences everywhere and no one noticed any flaws.

Paul told her that during rehearsals he’d overheard Brian Epstein say to Ed Sullivan in his most posh voice, “I would like to know the exact wording of your introduction for the boys.” Ed Sullivan had responded, “I would like for you to get lost.”

Marisol laughed so hard at that her stomach muscles ached.

He told her about the clubs they visited after the show last night and how busy they’d been today. “Today was “P” day for press conferences and photographs but it had ended up being “P” for pandemonium because of all the confusion. And Thursday is “M” day,” he said. She could hear the smile in his voice. “For Miami Meets Marisol.”

Marisol fell into bed that night with a huge grin on her face. Miami was only three days away.


	23. Here Comes the Sun

For two months Marisol had imagined what it would be like seeing Paul again. In her daydreams she ran down a hotel corridor and leaped into his arms, wrapping her legs around him, and they barely made it into the nearest room before tearing at each other’s clothes. Or he answered the door, shirtless, and swept her off her feet and carried her over the threshold and dropped her onto nearest bed, telling her all the while how much he had missed her.

The reality went something like this: after a cross country flight she waited thirty minutes for a cab from the Miami airport to the Deauville Hotel, where she cooled her heels in the lobby for another forty-five minutes before a harried Neil showed up to bring her to the Beatles suite of rooms on the twelfth floor.

The main room seemed to be filled with journalists and cameramen, in addition to the Beatles and their entourage. Neil left her beside a table of fruit and beverages. "Make yourself at home, dear," he said. "The lads are filming."

Across the room, Paul was in a conversation with George and Ringo, a movie cameraman a few feet away. She watched them for a minute until Paul locked eyes with her. He stepped out of the view of the camera and gave her a little smile and a wink and held up an index finger in a _just a minute_ sign. Then he went back to mugging and joking for the camera.

John was sitting on a sofa with Cynthia, smoking and ignoring the filmmaking.

"Good to see you, Cyn, You look wonderful,” Marisol said, grabbing her hand and giving it a squeeze.

"Nice to see you too," Cynthia said. "I'm right tired of being the only sane female round here."

Marisol offered her hand to John to shake, but he kissed it instead. "Hemingway. Nice of you to join us."

"Lennon," Marisol said, grinning. "Good to see you in America. Finally.”

"So this is America," John said, puffing on his cigarette. "They all seem out of their minds."

Marisol sensed Paul was behind her without looking around, even before he spoke. "Hello, Beauty." _That accent, that voice in her ear._

She turned to look at him and the rest of the room melted away. "Hi, stranger," she said breathlessly.

He smiled down at her, his eyes softening. Without another word he hooked an arm around her shoulders, drew her in and kissed her. When he released her she brought two fingers to her lips, feeling flushed. "Oh. That was nice."

“There’s lots more where that came from,” he promised. His eyes swept over her. “You look fantastic. Even better than I remembered.”

“So do you,” Marisol whispered. “America looks really good on you.” Her arm went around his waist. She couldn’t believe she was here, actually touching him. It felt like she lived in a black and white world until she saw him and the sun came out and turned everything to technicolor. All the waiting was worth it. He was her sunshine. 

"Do you lot want some privacy?" John said.

"That would be lovely, thank you," Paul said, his eyes never leaving Marisol’s face. "Order everyone away."

As if on cue, a middle-aged man with black hair and a straw hat sidled up to them. "What's happening, baby?"

Paul seemed to roll his eyes a little before dropping his arm from Marisol’s shoulders.

The man looked at Marisol. "Murray the K," he said, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you. And you are?"

Paul edged between Marisol and Murray, blocking her from view. "And she is...not part of the show. Hey Murray, Brian wants to talk to you about Madison Square Garden. Why don't you have another drink on your way to his room? Number 1215.”

“The Garden? Is that right?" Murray wandered away and Paul and John exchanged a look.

"If I hear him say 'what's happening baby' one more time I'll give him a punch up the bracket,” John said.

“He’s mad as a hatter,” Paul agreed. “But he knows his music. And he’s playing our records like mad.”

“I’m sick to the back teeth of all these blighters following us around.”

“Giz a smoke, mate,” Paul said. John handed him a cigarette and lit it for him.

"What's with the movie camera?" Marisol asked.

"Granada TV hired these American blokes to document our first visit."

"Fuckin' 'ell," John complained. "We're monkeys in a cage, that's all we are."

"Just until the next Sullivan show, then they'll all be gone." Paul said, trying as always to smooth things over.

Behind the sofa, George and Ringo stepped outside onto the balcony and were greeted by a wave of screams from the beach below. "Which one are you?" a girl yelled up at them.

"Which one are _you_?" Ringo yelled back.

The cameraman moved to the balcony to record the scene. Paul stared after them wistfully. "Go," Marisol said, giving his shoulder a playful shove. “Go meet your American fans.”

Paul shot her an apologetic look. "Be right back." He darted to the balcony to claim his share of crowd adoration and film time.

"There's our Pauly for ya," John said. "Never met a stage or a camera he didn't love."

"Or a mirror," Cynthia added.

"You guys, it's his nature. Where would you be without Paul? He's the yin to your yang.”

“The fuck’s that mean?” John asked.

“He’s the butter to your toast,” Marisol translated, loosely. “He balances you. You balance each other.”

“I don’t agree,” John said.

Cynthia nudged him. “Paul would agree. That’s why he’s the yin to your yang.”

 

The Beatles and their growing entourage had dinner in a large private room of a Miami steak house. George and Ringo had met a pair of beautiful, tanned teenagers on the beach earlier and quickly asked them out. Producer George Martin was there with his blonde “assistant,” along with Brian and the Beatles press agent and a host of radio personalities and both American and English journalists who had been given access to the Beatles for the week. All of them were vying for attention and quotes from the Fab Four.

Marisol was sitting next to a pleasant young radio personality who introduced himself as Larry Kane. Paul introduced her simply as “my friend Marisol." Paul was careful not to make a fuss over her with any of the newsmen or photographers around, and he seemed to keep one ear tuned to anything Larry said to her.

Halfway through dinner, Larry looked at Marisol thoughtfully. “You know who you resemble? Margo Hemingway, the fashion model. Any relation?”

Marisol drew in a breath, unsure how to respond. The last thing she wanted was to be outed as a Beatles’ girlfriend by the American press and have reporters showing up at her home in California asking about Paul. She wasn’t even sure herself how long their relationship could continue like this, long distance. Imagining reporters swarming around asking questions made her want to shudder.

Paul dropped his fork and leaned across Marisol, very close to the newsman’s face. “Listen Larry. This girl and I are friends from back home. I don’t want her name in any newspapers.”

Larry's face reddened. “No, listen, I’m not here to report on your personal lives. Completely off the record, I’m a big fan of Hemingway. I’m from Miami, spent a lot of time in Key West. He’s a hero of mine.”

“Completely off the record,” Paul repeated. “You don’t need to know anything beyond her first name.”

“Like I said, I’m strictly interested in the music and the Beatles phenomena.”

“Keep it that way, Larry, and we may get to travel together again this summer when we come back to America.” Paul stared him down. “All right? We’re good?”

“Absolutely.”

Paul settled back in his chair, straightening his tie with a sigh. He reached for Marisol’s hand underneath the table and gave it a squeeze.

 

Each of the Beatles had their own suite with a balcony overlooking the ocean, but after dinner everyone gathered again in the common lounge. George put an album by The Miracles on the record player and more whiskey was ordered from room service. A table was piled high with new gifts from fans and the Beatles tore into them. Fans were still massing on the beach beyond the protective hedges, writing huge loves notes to the Beatles in the sand. Every few minutes one of the Beatles ventured out on the balcony to a chorus of screams, then came back into the room laughing.

George and Ringo wanted to see the Don Rickles show and tried to drum up interest. Paul paused his frantic pacing and plopped onto the couch in the corner of the room beside Marisol. He held his hands out in front of him as if weighing the options, see-sawing them back and forth. "Don Rickles...making love to my girlfriend...Don Rickles..."

Marisol laughed. "We could always do both."

"Make love at a Don Rickles show? You into that? You little exhibitionist."

Marisol considered having to sit through a comedy show before being alone with Paul. ”Don Rickles is kinda crummy, actually."

Paul smiled. He reached in his pocket and slipped a room key into her palm, closing her fingers around it. "Meet me in my room in ten?”

 

Marisol spun around in the middle of Paul's lavishly appointed suite. The band had come a long way from the tiny generic hotel rooms they used to be holed up in all across Britain. Now they were holed up in the best. Not that it mattered to Marisol. She'd sleep in a closet if it meant being in Paul's arms. In front of a mirror, she removed the gold studs from her ears and fluffed her hair. She'd been in Miami for six hours and Paul had kissed her only once. The anticipation was killing her. Sighing, she pushed aside a heavy curtain and slid open the balcony door to take advantage of the ocean breeze and the sound of the waves. A crescendo of screams greeted her and she stepped back quickly into the room and sat on the couch to wait, her bare feet tucked under her.

Precisely ten minutes later Paul appeared with a bottle of French burgundy and two glasses, whistling a happy little tune. "Hello my love. Fancy seeing you here." He turned on the radio and spun the dial around, always checking to see if he could find his voice coming over American airwaves. He settled on a station playing Smokey Robinson, poured two glasses of wine and joined Marisol on the couch. "What a day," he said. "What a week! I love this America. Lovely place, lovely people."

"What took you so long?" Marisol asked, smiling.

"To get to this room, or America in general?"

"Both, I suppose."

"We've been waiting for Capitol Records to join the party and play our records."

“I should write Capitol Records a thank you note. I’m awfully glad you're here. "

"That makes two of us." He slung one arm along the back of the couch and turned his body towards her.

They sipped their wine and Paul talked about the Beatles, New York, the snowstorm on their way to Washington, DC, the nightmare charity ball at the British embassy where hundreds of socialites ran amok, swarming the group, demanding autographs and even snipping a lock of Ringo's hair.

He told her how excited they all were to see palm trees for the first time when they reached Miami, and how 7,000 fans awaited them at the airport, pushing against the narrow glass windows until a dozen of the panes shattered onto the tarmac below. He asked her about school, about her horses, about having Margo and Nick and the girls back in California.

While they talked he played with her hair, gathering it in his hand, twisting it in a fist, his fingers lightly grazing her neck and making her shiver.

"I didn't think we would be like this," Marisol mused, setting down her empty wine glass.

"What do you mean?"

“I thought we would be naked ten minutes after I got here.”

Paul smiled and put his glass on the table next to hers. “I'm not going to treat you like you're just another pretty face in my lap. You're my girl."

"You have such a way with words sometimes, McCartney."

He pressed his lips to her neck, slid the strap of her sundress off her shoulder. “You ever daydream about being starkers with me, the way we used to do?”

Marisol felt her pulse racing. The slightest touch of his lips against her skin, his fingers grazing her shoulder, the familiar tobacco and shampoo scent of him...she was a puddle of wanting. "All the time," she admitted breathlessly. "You?"

“Every time I get me self off,” he answered without hesitation. “You’re my go to fantasy.”

“So, you think of me six times a day then?”

Paul laughed a little. “Come here,” he said, leaning in and pressing his lips to hers. Marisol closed her eyes, giving in to the semi-drunk feeling she always got being this close to him.

He pulled away a little. “Take that pretty dress off for me.”

Marisol stood, a little unsteadily, and reached behind her back for the zipper. She shimmied out of the dress, her eyes fixed on his.

Paul licked his lips, his gaze sweeping over her lace undergarments and back to her face. “Keep going.”

She unclasped her bra and let it drop to the floor.

“Perfect,” he said. His hand dropped to his lap.

Watching his face, she hooked her thumbs inside the top of her lace panties and paused.

“God. I’ve never been so hard, just looking at you.” He began stroking himself through his trousers.

Marisol stepped closer, straddling his knee, her hands working at the buckle of his belt. “I don’t want to be the only one starkers any more.” She pulled his belt free and flung it over her shoulder. The buckle clanked against the dresser, making Paul smile. She reached for his zipper.

Paul stood long enough to rid himself of his socks and boots, his trousers and briefs. He sat back down on the sofa and pulled Marisol on top of him, kissing her neck while she worked at the buttons of his shirt. “God,” she moaned. “Why so many buttons.”

“Easy, love,” Paul said against her neck. “We have all night. All week, maybe.”

Finally his shirt was off, and he lifted his mouth from her neck to help her pull his T-shirt over his head.

“I brought your T-shirt back,” she told him between kisses. “I want to swap it out for one that still smells like you.”

“We can arrange that,” he said. “You can show up every fortnight and nick another shirt, I don’t mind.”

She rocked against him, only her scrap of panties between them. She was frantic to feel him inside her but didn’t want to leave his lips long enough to take her panties off. He held her head, keeping their lips together. She loved the way he tasted, the hint of wine on his mouth and the saltiness of his skin.

“Stand up,” he said. “Knickers off.”

She stood and wriggled out of her panties in a split second and climbed back onto him, reaching between them to guide him inside her. Paul held her waist, shaking his head. “Don’t be in such a hurry, baby.”

Her breasts were inches from his face and he took a nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue around it. “Oh god,” she moaned, arching her back. He kept her poised above him, his hands still on her waist. He switched his mouth to the other breast, his tongue swirling around it. “Oh,” she whimpered. “Oh god.”

“Sshh,” he said, his mouth moving up to her neck. “Stop making those little sounds of yours. You’ll make me come before I’m ready.”

She couldn’t remember ever feeling this desperate for anyone. “Hurry,” she begged.

He steadied her with a hand on her thigh, holding himself with the other. “Here. Come here.”

She lowered herself, taking him in. It took forever to feel the length of him ease into her. He groaned, rocking his hips the slightest bit. She was trembling, wanting to ride him, but he held her down on him with one hand on her bottom and the other wrapped tight in her hair.

“Slowly,” he murmured into her neck. “I want this to last.”

With both hands on her hips, he raised her and lowered her slowly. He raised her again and started a relentless rhythm up into her. He spoke the whole time, and the words barely reached her brain, so lost she was in the feeling. It was more the sound of his voice, the richness of it. Words like _so warm_ and _yeah that’s it_  and _that’s my girl_  and oh _fuck, fuck I’m losing_ it sifted through the delirious buzzing of her brain.

_So good. So good._

That was all she could think, staring into his eyes. The way he was looking at her, all fervent yet tender.

He slid a hand down her body and stroked her with two fingers as he was thrusting up into her, and that was all it took to send her spiraling over the edge. And then he was moving faster and deeper and groaning her name against her neck.

Marisol realized she was going to cry a second before the tears spilled over. She turned her face into his shoulder, her arms wrapped around him, her fingers in his hair.

He slowed, and then stilled, his face still pressed against her neck. “Don’t move, baby,” he said. “Give me a second.”

She couldn’t move if she wanted to. She took a shuddering breath and he lifted his head, seeing the tears on her cheek.

“Are you okay?” he asked, so softly.

She shook her head no. “Yes,” she said. She didn’t even know why she was crying. She was exhausted from traveling all day, for one thing, and overwhelmed with a mix of giddiness at seeing him again and the constant dread of another looming goodbye.

“I just…I don’t want you to leave.”

He nodded. “I know.” He lifted her off his lap and they both stood, gazing at each other somberly. Then he picked her up and carried her across the room, dropping her onto the mattress and stretching out beside her.

He brushed a thumb across her tears. “I know, baby. It was intense for me too. I forgot…how it is with us.”

Marisol curled her body into his and closed her eyes. He was here, finally, and hers for the night, and there was no place on earth she'd rather be.


	24. Getting Better All the Time

A bright shaft of sunlight streamed through a crack in the heavy gold drapes and beach sounds invaded Marisol’s sleep haze. Waves hitting the shore, sea birds cawing, distant laughter, and somewhere, someone was rapping on a door.

She was adrift in a sea of blankets and warm arms and legs wrapped around her and she had no inclination to move, because this must be heaven.

Except for the relentless knocking. "The hell?" Paul's voice was husky next to her ear. He shifted and yelled at the door. "Sod off!" Then he angled his body around her, aroused and pressing against her bottom. He held her hair to one side and trailed warm kisses along her neck and shoulders, humming against her skin. She sighed happily. Definitely heaven. With any luck they could spend the entire day in this sweet warm bed paradise.

The knocking grew louder. "Macca! Open up mate!"

Paul slung off the covers with a sigh and sat on the edge of the bed, scratching the back of his head. "Bloody ‘ell, what time is it?"

"It's too early. Come back to bed." Marisol reached for him. “Ignore that Scouse voice. He’s not your boss. Whoever it is.”

"Right, love. Hang on."

The Scouser turned out to be George. "Girls everywhere in bikinis, mate, you have to see this. All of 'em with long tan legs, and tits like you've never imagined--"

"Oh god," Marisol groaned, dragging a pillow over her head.

She heard the door close and a rustling sound. The bed dipped with Paul's weight and he pulled the pillow off her head. “‘Ello, sleepyhead. Fancy coming to the beach?"

"Oh can I? I haven't seen tanned legs and tits since I left California. Yesterday."

"Yours are the only tits I want to see." He handed her a white box with a red ribbon. "Happy Valentine’s Day, love."

Marisol sat up. She'd watched the Beatles opening gifts since she'd gotten here yesterday. Every day was like Christmas morning for them. She tore off the ribbon with delight and opened the box. “You got me a present, Sunshine?”

"One for today, and one for later tonight.”

Inside the box was a bright yellow and orange swimsuit, a flattering high cut that she knew would make her legs look long. The front of the suit was low enough to show cleavage without being revealing. She checked the tag. It was her size, and ridiculously expensive. "It's beautiful," she murmured.

"Ring and I met a girl wearing one like this on the beach yesterday. Turned out she got it at the hotel boutique. Ring got one for Maureen too."

Her lips quirked up at the thought of two Beatles meeting a beautiful girl on the beach and wanting to see their “girls” wearing the same thing. "I love it."

Underneath the swimsuit was a slinky white slip of a negligee. "Wow." Marisol lifted it out of the box and held it up. "Gorgeous."

"From Paris," Paul said.

"Ooh la la, Monsieur. Did you and Ring see a girl in Paris wearing this too?"

He laughed a little. "You will be the first girl I've seen wearing this. And I've been picturing it for weeks.”

“Merci, Monsieur.” Marisol let the box slide off her lap onto the bed while she ran her hands up Paul’s bare chest and tilted her head to kiss his neck, his jaw, behind his ear. He made a humming noise and ran his hands up her sides to her breasts.

“There's something about this place Miami,” he said. “So warm and soft and lovely.” He sucked on her ear lobe and she groaned. She wrapped her arms around his warm neck and pulled him down onto the bed with her. Paul was the best Valentine’s Day gift.

“Paul! C’mon lid, open up!” George was knocking at the door. Again.

Paul lifted his head and made a face. “Oi, would ya listen to ‘is rantin’? I’ll get rid of ‘im.”

“We need cozzies,” George said. “Neil got it sorted with the hotel manager, they’re opening a shop for us. Come ‘ead, wack.”

The door closed and Paul bounced back into the room, calling over his shoulder on the way to the bathroom. “Come on, love, let’s go give the Americans some of their money back.”

“We’re shopping? Right now?” Marisol sighed.

“We don’t got no cozzies,” Paul called from the bathroom. “We have to go now before the shops open.”

Twenty minutes in the boutique and each of the Beatles had a pile of clothes at the check out counter. Swim suits, which they called cozzies, terry cloth swim jackets, white canvas boat shoes, short sleeved shirts, summer weight trousers, jeans, hats and designer shades. A summer wardrobe for four Beatles, and a swimsuit and two dresses and a pair of sandals for Cynthia.

“Let me buy you something, Mari.” Paul pulled a red sundress from a nearby rack. "How about this lovely frock?"

“No, really. I'm good for summer clothes.”

He selected a pair of Oliver Goldsmith oversized black sunglasses and gently put them on her face. Marisol looked at herself in the mirror and thought of Holly Golightly in _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_. “Promise me one thing,” she quoted. “Don’t take me home until I’m drunk—very drunk indeed.”

"We'll take these," Paul said, carefully removing them. "Wrap them up,” he instructed the cashier.

The cashier said crisply, "that will be six thousand two hundred fifty two dollars. And forty-three cents." Marisol tried not to hyperventilate. $6000 for cozzies?

Paul giggled with glee as John stood at the checkout counter saying, “Charge everything to Brain Epstein, room 1215 at the Deauville Hotel. That's right, 1215."

“Wayo," George said, and slapped another pair of designer shades on the counter, bringing the total to $6344. And change.

Marisol exchanged a look with Neil. "They're so out of control right now."

Neil shrugged. “Eppy can afford it.”

 

The Beatles had a big day planned, beginning with a Life magazine photo shoot. The hotel pool would be a mob scene, so it was arranged for them to use a private pool on nearby Star Island.

Marisol sat in the sun with Cynthia while the boys frolicked in the pool, politely doing whatever the photographers and Brian asked of them, even though the water was frigid from an overnight cold snap. They were a well-oiled publicity machine, Marisol thought. When they started turning blue, the photo shoot ended and everyone was whisked away for an afternoon cruise on the _Southern Trail_ , a 93-foot yacht with a full crew.

By midday the tropical sun broke through and everyone was ready for another swim. The captain cut the engine and dropped anchor near Stiltsville, a group of wooden fishing houses built on stilts on the edge of Biscayne Bay. The boys began peeling off clothes down to their swim suits.

Marisol swung her legs over the rail and perched on the edge of the yacht, waiting for Paul to join her. “S’lovely, innit?” she heard John Lennon say, seconds before he shoved her into the sea.

“Dammit, Lennon!” she yelled, but that was all she could get out before she was underwater. It felt nice, surprisingly, and she kicked her legs and stretched her arms, propelling herself away from the yacht before coming up for air. She gasped in a breath and opened her eyes to see Paul surfacing a few feet away.

“All right, love?” He swam to her, treading water while he pushed her hair from her face.

“Lennon’s a prat,” she told him. She braced a hand on Paul’s shoulder, the water gently lapping at their skin.

“That’s a fact.” He grinned at her. “You look so, so pretty, your hair drifting along on the water. I’ve never seen you dripping wet before.”

She grinned back at him. “I’ve never seen tropical Paul either. It’s nice.”

"That suit on you…damn, lass, you have made my day."

"It's a perfect fit."

His grin widened. "I have a photographic memory for shapes." He tapped his head. "It's all up here, every inch of you."

"I don't know if that's creepy or artistic," Marisol said, laughing.

Paul laughed and stretched back his arms, floating away from her. “You coming?”

They swam around the back of one of the stilt houses, out of everyone’s view. Their hips and toes bumped as they swam side by side until they reached the stairs leading up to the wooden deck.

Paul hoisted himself onto the steps and pulled Marisol up beside him. He stood admiring the skyline across Biscayne Bay.

“Hellooo Miami!” he yelled, spreading his arms over his head.

He turned and Marisol leaned toward him, her hands on his waist, tilting her head to look up at him. She wished she had a camera, a way to capture this moment. The way Paul looked right now, the way he was looking at her. He kissed Marisol’s dripping nose and then her lips. "Hello salty girl.” They kissed again and Marisol slipped her tongue inside his mouth and trailed her hands up his chest. Paul made a noise that echoed around them, his hands tangling in her hair and pulling her tight against his body. “I want you right here. Right now.”

She hummed against his mouth, her mind reeling, wondering if they could pull it off without being photographed or drowning.

Paul ducked his head, peering through the steps to judge how far they were from the yacht. “Murray the K thinks he’s the fifth Beatle or something. We’ll never get any peace ’til he leaves.”

Marisol let out a ragged breath. “It’s okay. We should probably stay where Brian can see you so he doesn’t have a stroke.”

She sat down on the steps, pulling him down beside her. By looking under the house they could see Neil and Ringo and George splashing next to the yacht, taking turns balancing on and falling off of a styrofoam kick board. Cynthia and John floated nearby, laughing at their antics.

“Neil has been kinda quiet around me, is everything okay with him?” Marisol asked.

“Neil? Yeah, I suppose. You know he and Angela called it off?”

Marisol’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know. It’s been about three weeks since I got a letter from her.”

Paul nodded soberly. “Right before we left for Paris. I think she met some bloke at school, didn’t fancy waiting around all the time for Neil.”

“Is he upset about it?”

Paul shrugged. “I dunno, probably is, but says he didn’t need the complication any road.”

Marisol looked down at her lap where Paul held her hand, his thumb making lazy circles in her palm. “Is that what I am to you?” she asked quietly. “A complication?”

“'Course you are. Not much I can do about it though. Ye can't make yourself stop dreamin' of the one you're dreamin' of, can you?”

Marisol felt like her heart was beating too hard for her chest to contain it. Paul nudged her playfully until she looked up at him. "Can you?" he repeated. He was staring steadily back at her, the sun highlighting the green and gold flecks in his eyes. His skin was pink and glowing, his cheeks and nose the slightest bit red. A sun-kissed Paul was possibly the most devastating thing she'd ever seen.

"I reckon not." She lowered her head, pressing a kiss into his sun-warmed shoulder.

They leaned against each other, their legs touching from their hips to their ankles. A pelican swooped down from the roof and landed on a wave a few feet away. The water lapped at their toes, their skin glistening, a whole afternoon stretched before them. Paul nodded slowly. “I reckon not.”

Back on the yacht, they cruised around the bay, ate snacks and drank warm Scotch and cola while they relaxed on deck. Later, Paul sat at the yacht’s piano and banged out their new song, “Can’t Buy Me Love.” Then he began playing a lilting, melancholy melody that Marisol remembered hearing him play on the guitar one night in a hotel room. He played it over and over, humming along, sometimes with nonsense words, like rhyming scrambled eggs with lovely legs.

After a few minutes of this, John yelled from the lounge, “Bloody hell, Paul, if you don’t stop playing that damn song I’m going to toss both you and the piano overboard.”

“Tryin’ to find the words, John,” Paul said quietly. He started the song from the beginning.

“Can you just finish the bloody thing? Yer making me crackers.”

George snorted a laugh. “He thinks he’s bloody Beethoven with that song. He’ll drive ya mad.”

Other than that interlude, they weren’t the Beatles this afternoon, just four fresh-faced northern English lads enjoying the sunshine. It couldn’t last long, though. By the time they docked at the marina, it was time for them to be at the hotel to rehearse _The Ed Sullivan Show_ , but they couldn’t get in the front of the hotel without being mobbed.

Fortunately the police officer assigned to them was a crowd-control expert. Sgt. Buddy Dresner specialized in handling high profile visitors to Miami. He hustled the Beatles and their friends into a moving van and dropped them off at the loading dock behind the hotel, then whisked them into a freight elevator up to their floor. In the elevator, Buddy mentioned that in all the rushing around he had forgotten to get his wife flowers for Valentine’s Day.

As soon as they got to the rooms, George grabbed the Miami phone book from the nightstand while Paul called the hotel concierge. They charged a huge bouquet of flowers to their rooms, sent to Buddy's wife, with his signature.

Marisol sat on the edge of the bed, grinning and shaking her head at Paul as George wandered out of the room to change for rehearsal. “Wow,” she said. “Mrs. Buddy will be pleased.”

“What can I say?” Paul held out his hands, palms up. “I’m an incurable romantic, me.”

He stood between her legs, smiling down at her. "This rehearsal should take a couple of hours, and then we'll have a nice dinner with the others, and after that, I'm going to give you another Valentine gift." His gaze slid over her body and back to her face. "And, if memory serves, it should be a perfect fit."

Her heart began to trip in her chest under the heat of his gaze. He placed his hands on the bed on either side of her hips and gave her a lingering kiss.

“I like this place, Miami," she murmured, when he finally pulled away.

"Getting better all the time," he agreed. "Wish I had time to see to you right this minute."

At the door he turned to look at her. Marisol gave him a little wave from the bed. Shaking his head, Paul huffed a regretful sigh, and then he was gone.

Marisol looked around the room, trying to think of how to occupy herself. She slid open the balcony doors. She couldn't sit outside, in case the fans or the press remembered which room was Paul's. So she curled up in a chair close to the window where she could feel the breeze and hear the waves and opened her English Lit book. As if there was the slightest chance of focusing on school when the only thought in her head was Paul--the tender way he looked at her, his soft lips on hers, and a whole night ahead of them.


	25. Smiles Returning to the Faces

On Saturday morning the Beatles were up early again, soaking up the morning sunshine and posing for photographers, splashing in the surf with fans while Mal and a line of police watched carefully from the sidelines. The Deauville Hotel was completely sealed by walls with fenced breakwaters. It was almost impossible for anyone to sneak in, and the hotel had hired extra security men to keep trespassers out. Hotel guests and employees were issued special passes to get in and out of the line of security guarding the property.

The boys had time for a snorkeling lesson in the hotel pool before the crowd of registered guests became too huge and they were whisked away again to a private home a few miles from the hotel. The owners were friends of a comedian the Beatles had met on their first night at the hotel, and they had offered their home as a getaway place.

Sgt. Buddy brought them over in a limo. The owners—a hotel builder and his wife, a former nightclub singer—offered them cold cuts and sodas and opened the sliding glass doors to the backyard where their thirteen-year-old son and a friend were playing basketball.

“Think you can take on the Liverpool Globetrotters?” John shouted, stealing a pass. The four Liverpool lads crashed the game of hoops, to the amazement of the two middle schoolers. For fifteen minutes it was the Beatles against the junior high boys, until one of them elbowed Paul in the eye going for a rebound, and Brian called an end to the game.

Everybody jumped into the pool, except for one of the boys, who quietly sat at a table reading a Spider-Man comic. After a few minutes Ringo climbed out of the pool and joined the boy, and they sat reading his comics together. _What a story that kid will have at school on Monday,_ Marisol thought with a smile.

While the rest of the boys horsed around, Cynthia and Marisol relaxed poolside. Cynthia was having a bit of a rough time of it. She said the atmosphere when they first arrived at JFK airport was frightening. “We all had our hands to our ears when we stepped out of the plane,” she remembered. “But the noise wasn’t from the jets. It was the fans— thousands and thousands of fans.”

Later in New York she was left behind after the band raced away in a car. She and George’s sister had to call themselves a taxi to the Plaza Hotel and run upstairs to their rooms to get money to pay the driver. When they first arrived in Miami, Cynthia was again separated from the group when a security guard held her back.

Cynthia said John was angry with her. “Don’t be so bloody slow next time,” he’d told her. “They could’ve killed you.”

“Amazing as he is, chivalry is not always his strong suit, is it?” Marisol said.

After lunch the Beatles were rushed back to the hotel for a press conference while Marisol and Cynthia waited upstairs in the rooms. The boys returned forty-five minutes later looking frustrated and irritable.

“What is it with these American journalists?” Paul asked, a look of disgust on his face. “Their questions are even more stupid than the ones back home.”

“Never a word about our music,” John added. “All they want to know about is Ringo’s rings and our hair.”

"We've been musicians for six years,” George said, “and they treat us like some kind of novelty act.”

Paul flopped onto the couch beside Marisol. “That press conference, I thought it would never end. The questions were mind numbing.” He let his head fall against the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I tried my best to look like I gave the slightest fuck what anyone was going on about, but as soon as the topic of our hair came up, I was done. I was killed by boredom. I was sitting there, quite literally dead.”

Marisol made a sympathetic noise and rubbed his shoulder while Brian gave the band the rest of the day’s itinerary. They had a camera rehearsal followed by a promotional photograph session, and finally a dinner meeting with Capitol record executives to set up recording schedules and record releases planned for the future.

“Will you be all right hanging out with Cyn?” Paul asked, squeezing her knee.

Marisol assured him she would be just fine. Cynthia wanted to do some shopping for Julian and John’s little sisters, and Buddy arranged for Cynthia and Marisol to have a driver to take them to some boutiques.

Neil rushed around with a worried frown, Beatles scurried from room to room in various stages of dress, Sgt. Buddy hovered in the doorway ready to sneak the band through the downstairs throngs, Cynthia appeared relaxed and oblivious to the madness, and Marisol tried to fade into the background and not get in anyone’s way.

 

The days were passing too quickly. Tomorrow the Beatles would film _The Ed Sullivan Show_ and the next morning they would fly back to England. Their days were filled with activity, meals were always in a large group if she was invited along at all, and the only time she had alone with Paul was late at night in his room. They made the best of it, though: talking for hours, making love, cuddling and spooning all night.

Paul told her countless stories about their time in New York. He told her that after their first rehearsal for _The Ed Sullivan Show_ the group requested a tape playback of their performances. Staff members were surprised; no act had ever asked to hear their rehearsal played back for them before. Paul said they wanted to make sure their vocals didn’t overshadow the instrumental backing. They were taken into a control room to hear the tapes, where the mixing console looked like “the cockpit of a German Messerschmitt fighter plane.”

He told her the Beatles were originally booked to fly from New York to Washington, DC for their concert at the Coliseum. They woke up to a winter snow storm and George flatly refused to fly in a “fookin’ blizzard” so a private train car was quickly added and the Beatles and their entourage traveled to Washington by train.

The Washington concert was “tremendous” but the fans pelted the group with jelly beans, which were much harder than the English version of jelly babies. “My god, they hurt,” Paul said. He told her the adrenaline rush of 8,000 screaming fans caused Ringo to play like a madman, laying down a much faster than normal beat for their opening song “Roll Over Beethoven.” George spent most of the song in search of a working microphone, not that it mattered. No one could have heard George’s voice or their hectic playing anyway over the screaming. Paul said they all had headaches the next day from the constant barrage of flashbulb photography at the concert and everywhere else they went.

Their limousine was almost crushed by fans the next day when they returned to the Plaza. The chief of police met them in their suite and warned them they needed to be more careful. He looked so pale and stressed that George remarked, “He’s cracking up.”

Their arrival in Miami had been a repeat of the madness at Kennedy Airport except for the beautiful blue clear sky and the bright sun. When they stepped out of the airplane, the noise was deafening. The airport was jammed with thousands of fans, and some of them had evaded police and were poised to attack. Screeching, squirming fans came from every direction. Paul laughed while telling Marisol about two fans who popped up like jack in the boxes from a luggage wagon as the Beatles were running past. One girl sprang at the group with her autograph book ready but the other was so shocked by seeing them up close that she was frozen stiff until the police led her away.

The Beatles had to fight their way to their limousines while policemen tried to hold back the crowd. They picked up a city of Miami police motorcycle escort at the edge of the airport, with sirens screaming. As they crossed the bridge separating Miami from Miami Beach, the Miami motorcycle policemen waved goodbye and at the other end of the bridge Miami Beach motorcycle policemen were waiting to greet them and lead them the rest of the way to the Deauville hotel.

Although critics hadn’t been especially kind in their coverage of the Beatles’ shows, the audience and fan reaction was overwhelming, and Paul and the rest considered the trip a tremendous success.

 

Paul liked to sleep with the window open, and sometimes the room was humid and Marisol had trouble falling asleep. She would be restless, changing positions to try and get comfortable, and every time she moved Paul adjusted his position in his sleep so that he was always snuggled up against her or had an arm or a leg thrown over her. Sometimes he would even pet her or give her what felt like little kisses without waking up. Each morning she woke up with his arms around her. It was like waking up in a warm nest, and she added that to the growing list of things she was going to miss about being with Paul every day. Also on the list: the look on his face just before he kissed her, the way he played with her hair, the sound of his voice. And at the top of the list? His frighteningly addictive scent.

 

On Sunday morning, everyone slept late and enjoyed breakfast together in their rooms. They scoured the newspapers, watched television, listened to the radio, and relaxed on their hotel balconies. Occasionally one of the boys would stand up to wave at the hundreds of fans gathered on the other side of the hotel hedges, their eyes constantly trained for any sign of movement from the twelfth floor. A volley of screams would result and the boys would laugh and smile at each other, reassured that the American fans were still holding vigil after three days.

The manager of the Deauville hotel showed up with several trolleys full of products from all over the United States that companies had sent for the Beatles to try. Soft drinks, cigarettes, record albums, board games, clothing…even shampoo and other men’s grooming products. Every morning was Christmas morning when you were a Beatle on tour.

Unable to go out on the balcony, Marisol played chess with Neil until she got tired of losing, then headed for the pool with a textbook. Around noon she wandered through the lobby shops and discovered Beatle fans were already lining up for the live TV performance, even though the doors would not open for another seven hours.

The Beatles had an afternoon dress rehearsal followed by telephone interviews with DJs throughout the United States and Canada. It was late afternoon before they headed back to their individual rooms to rest and get ready for the final live Ed Sullivan show.

By the time Mal came downstairs to escort Marisol back to the Beatles’ rooms, the lobby was filled with thousands of fans waiting to get into the ballroom.

Upstairs on the 12th floor, the Beatles were ready to rock, but they wanted something to eat first. They hadn’t had a good meal of fish and chips for at least a week.

Neil walked in with a room service menu. "Fish and chips," George announced. "Four fish and chips, Neil," Paul confirmed.

Marisol couldn't wait to see what an American hotel chef would make of that order. She asked for a grilled cheese sandwich and Cynthia ordered a salad.

"The fuck is this?" John asked when their food arrived.

"Looks like Gefilte fish to me," Marisol said. "It's a Jewish thing. This IS Miami Beach, after all.” The four Beatles all peered at their plates with varying degrees of disgust.

Marisol happily bit into her grilled cheese sandwich.

What are you eating?" Paul asked her. "Blimey, that smells tremendous. Can I have some of that?" He reached for her plate.

Marisol snatched up her sandwich and turned her shoulder to block him. "Don't even think about it. I haven’t had lunch, I was far too busy sitting by the pool and shopping.”

Four pairs of eyes watched her take another bite.

"Why haven't you told us about grilled cheese sarnies, Mar?"

"Eat your fish gel," Marisol said. She licked a dollop of melted cheese from her thumb.

They all looked at each other and then at Neil. "Have them do us some grilled cheese sarnies, Neil,” Ringo said.

"Come on, lads, you've got thirty minutes til show time."

"And you can send whatever this is back." Paul stacked their plates of fish.

"You can sort it, Neil. We'll be waiting," John said, leaning back and lighting a cigarette.

Neil was already out the door.

"And more Fantas!" George yelled as the door slammed.

 

The Beatles were still waiting for their dinner when Mal arrived to take Marisol downstairs to the ballroom to be seated. The lobby was in chaos. Mal told her the television network had somehow overbooked the ballroom by about a thousand tickets. Since hotel guests were allowed in first, a thousand Beatles fans with tickets were left in tears outside the ballroom. These same fans had waited four to eight hours to get in. When they were denied entrance, it caused a riot and additional police were called in.

A throng of disappointed teenagers were now blocking access to the stage. “I dunno how we’re meant to be getting them in,” Mal said, his brow etched in concern. “The lads don’t know about this.”

Neil and Mal had already decided it wouldn’t be safe for Cynthia to sit in the auditorium, so she was taken backstage, disguised in her black Cleopatra wig. Marisol was seated in a group of reserved seats in the middle of the seventh row, next to George Martin and his assistant Judy. Marisol was starting to suspect there was a definite romance between the two of them.

A young girl on the other side of Mr. Martin was bouncing in her seat, flushed with anticipation. At one point she asked the dignified George Martin if he liked the Beatles. “I do, rather,” Mr. Martin replied.

The Beatles were scheduled to open the show, but when Ed Sullivan began his introduction, the group was nowhere in sight. Sullivan spun out his introduction, even talking about the weather. Still no Beatles. Ed Sullivan said, “And now, here are—“ He paused, eyeing the confusion at the back of the room. “—the Beatles, right after this.” Sullivan was forced to go to a commercial break.

Mr. Martin looked concerned. “They’re having problems getting through the jammed lobby, I’ll wager.”

Marisol twisted her hands in her lap, not about to mention the Beatles could be still waiting for their grilled cheese sarnies. She breathed a sigh of relief when, during the commercial break, Sgt. Buddy led a flying wedge of officers surrounding the Beatles through the audience to the stage. The band plugged in their guitars only seconds before Sullivan gave his introduction. John, Paul and George stepped to the microphones and launched straight into “She Loves You.”

The crowd was not a typical Beatles crowd. Hotel guests had nabbed the best seats up front, and the fans who were allowed in were seated in the very back of the ballroom. The real fans were missing and so were their screams, whistles and shouts. For the first time, Marisol got to sit in the audience at a Beatles performance. And she could actually hear them sing and play, every note.

The Beatles segued from their opening rocker into the ballad “This Boy.” It was riveting, watching John, Paul and George sharing a single microphone, their voices blending in perfect harmony. They were all smiles, beaming at each other, having fun. At one point John randomly sang “eeeeeeee” off mic, and Paul stepped back from the microphone, laughing.

Their second segment was not free of glitches. The microphones had been placed on the stage in front of the curtain and were not at the right angles. Paul’s voice was barely audible during “I Saw Her Standing There.” John kept trying to adjust his flopping mic and ended up bending his knees to sing. They made a quick microphone adjustment before launching into “From Me to You.” They finished with the song that started it all in America less than two months ago, “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” The Beatles bowed and went over to Ed Sullivan, who praised them.

And now they could truly relax.

The minute they got back to their rooms, the Beatles went into a huddle with Brian. They'd worked nonstop for months, they wanted a holiday, and they wanted it in Miami. When Sgt. Buddy mentioned he could arrange for them to stay in a private home on Star Island, Brian needed no more convincing.

"Five more days, Mari! You can stay? Get a little sun, get healthy with me?” Paul was grinning down at her, delighted to be staying in Miami.

It crossed her mind to wonder how she was going to make up for missing a week of lectures, but she shoved the thought aside. She would have plenty of time to study when Paul was gone.

"Who could refuse an invitation like that?"

Marisol laughed as Paul lifted her off her feet and swung her around, singing gibberish in her ear. "Gonna get me some sunshine, get me some lovin', get me some Miami..." He set her down. "But first I'm getting a drink."

She followed him to the counter that served as their bar and watched as he fixed their drinks. "This is America. Don't be stingy with the ice," she reminded him.

"I. Had. A. Fantastic. Night," Paul said, adding more ice to her glass of scotch.

"Did you now?" Marisol smiled up at him. "What happened?"

"Rock 'n' roll, Mari. Rock 'n' roll happened. And now I'm on holiday."

"It doesn't get much better than that," she had to agree.

The reporters, photographers, even Murray the K had finished their assignments and were heading home, and the Beatles were ready to celebrate. The music was loud and the whiskey flowed.

Marisol wandered around the room with her scotch and coke, congratulating the boys on their performance, asking Neil about the mayhem in the lobby, and chatting with Cynthia about the souvenirs she’d picked up for Julian and her mother and John’s little sisters and Aunt Mimi.

She was peering into her glass, shaking the ice and contemplating another drink, when Paul sidled up. "Are you finished with that drink, pet? I'm very busy and have important things to do."

"You do?" She raised an eyebrow.

He nodded slowly, his eyes hooded as he let his gaze roam over her. Marisol wondered how drunk he was. ”Back in the room,” he added. “Very important things."

“Oh. By all means." She set her glass on the nearest table, totally unprepared for what happened next. He bent over, picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. He spun around, and out of the corner of her eye she watched Neil dodging a blow from her high heeled sandals.

"Hey wacker, save the professional wrestling for your room, why don't you?" Neil shouted over Marisol's squeals.

"Get the door, Neil, my hands are full," Paul shouted back.

Paul marched down the hall to his room, singing in a booming bass voice, "Don't pull up the anchor, my love is on the way, don't raise the sails, she's running down the quay—“

“What the hell is that song?” Marisol asked, laughing.

“I dunno, I’m writing it this minute.” He spun her around in the hall twice in front of the door to his room. She hung on tight, convinced he was going to drop her or fall down or slam her head into a wall.

“Stop! You’re a madman! My mother warned me about northern men," Marisol said, straining to get down while he fumbled with the key.

"Did she now? Clever woman."

The door closed behind them and he set her on her feet. Marisol stumbled as she balanced on one foot and then the other, pulling off her heels. Across the room, Paul was already loosening his tie. "I'm on holiday, let's get starkers," he sang.

Marisol laughed as she watched him. She'd never seen Paul this giddy. Five days of vacation ahead with no responsibilities. It did wonders for him. She was thrilled herself. The goodbye she'd been dreading was now five more days away.

"How about a little Mr. Soul, Mari? This album always seems to end well for us." The music started and Marisol watched the show. Off came the heeled boots, black socks, the Beatles suit. He knew she was watching and seemed to enjoy performing a subtle striptease as he sang along with Sam Cooke, taking his time with the buttons of his shirt, his eyes locked on hers.

She wriggled out of her dress, heart pounding. The Beatle had turned into her Paul, all tanned skin and lean muscles and long legs. He stood, panting, dressed only in his briefs, and backed toward the bed. He lifted a finger and beckoned to her.

So she ran across the room and tackled him. "Ow, fuck!" he said, laughing as they fell onto the bed. "Elbow strike, two penalty points."

She straddled him and pulled his arms up over his head, pressing his wrists into the mattress. "No more singing. No more screwing around. Time to please please me. Time to love me do."

He lifted his head and licked at her nipple.

She yelped in surprise. He easily freed his wrists, flipped her onto her back and swirled his tongue around her other nipple.

"Oh," she said, breathless. "Okay, that'll work."

He hovered over her, his eyes locked on hers. "Five days, Mari. The gods of long distance romance have smiled upon us. Are you happy?"

"So happy."

"Me too." He lowered his head and kissed her, and in that moment, it felt like all of the lyrics of all the love songs ever written were written for the two of them alone.


	26. Tomorrow I'll Miss You

The next morning the Beatles were smuggled out of the Deauville Hotel in a bread van and taken to nearby Star Island, an exclusive community of lavish houses and private docks with a guard house to keep away uninvited guests. They were given a sumptuous mansion for the week with a full staff, an Olympic size swimming pool and a private dock.

Buddy brought fishing poles and bait and taught the Beatles and Neil to fish from the end of the dock. He baited everyone’s hook, since the Beatles refused to do it. “Boody! Boody!” they would cry, in their Liverpool accents, and Buddy would hook their bait and unhook their fish.

Marisol was sitting next to Paul, swinging her legs off the dock, when he caught his first redfish. He reeled it in, laughing with glee, and had no idea what to do from there.

“I thought you grew up on a river, City Slicker,” Marisol teased, unhooking the fish for him.

“The only fish we’ve ever caught was from a chippy and already fried,” Paul admitted.

They were still fishing when two young men who looked about the same age as the Beatles cruised past in a speedboat, waving to the group on the dock.

“Where ya going, mates?” John shouted. “Give us a go!”

The two young men waved again and turned the boat around, angling toward the dock. They introduced themselves as neighbors from two houses down. Jack was tall, tan and blonde, dressed in shorts and a University of Florida T-shirt. The driver of the boat, Sam, was stockier with dark hair and wore a Hawaiian shirt over bathing shorts.

John spotted a pair of water skis inside the boat and confessed he’d always wanted to learn to ski. Sam said, “Welcome aboard, we’ll show you how,” and for the rest of the afternoon everyone went out in pairs and learned how to water ski. Paul was the best, Marisol thought. He took to it immediately, but John and Cynthia were also both very good. Ringo seemed to have the most fun, although he was constantly falling down. John got furious when he saw someone photographing him from another boat. He skied close and carved a wall of water in their direction, drenching everyone in the photographer’s boat.

“Most impressive for a beginner,” Marisol told him when he got back to shore, still fuming and grumbling about bloody photographers.

Marisol took a turn skiing with Paul, then rode in the boat with the neighbor boys while Paul and George skied together. She took a few pictures of them with Paul’s camera before tucking it away in her beach bag to keep it dry. Jack sat on the back bench seat with Marisol and tried to make conversation with her over the noise of the boat. He asked her where she went to school and quickly turned the conversation to University of Florida football, while Marisol tried to keep her eyes from glazing over.

Suddenly George shouted and crashed into the water and Paul let go of the tow rope seconds later. Sam circled around to pick them up.

“Ey up! We nearly hit a fookin’ shark!” George was yelling.

“A manatee,” Jack said. “They’re harmless.”

“The fook they are! I was almost bloody eaten!”

Sam cut the motor and pulled the skis into the boat and lowered the ladder for George and Paul. Marisol stood by the stairs with a big smile and a towel for Paul. He wasn’t smiling back. “It was a manatee, really,” she said.

Paul took the towel, rubbed it across his hair, and looked pointedly at her chest. “Do you have a coverup?”

She looked down at herself. “What? No…I just finished skiing, I didn’t bring one.”

“Well, you should have done.” He wrapped the towel around her shoulders, covering her chest. Then he pointed to the bench and told her to sit down.

She almost laughed, thinking he was joking, but he didn’t look at all amused. So she sat on the bench, and Paul joined her as Sam started the engine and made for the dock.

“Did you have fun?” she asked him, when they were underway.

“Yeah, great. Got my sunnies?” Marisol pulled his sunglasses from her beach bag. He put them on and ignored her for the rest of the ride.

George helped the neighbor boys tie up the boat at the dock while Paul muttered his thanks and stalked away. Marisol followed him, trying to figure out what had changed his mood. Was he that scared of the manatee? She didn’t have to wonder long. As soon as they were out of hearing distance of the others, Paul whirled around, jabbing a finger in her direction.

“Were you encouraging him?” he demanded.

“What? Who?”

“You know bloody well who. Florida.“

“Who the hell is Florida?” Marisol asked, genuinely confused. “Oh…the one in the T-shirt?”

Paul pushed his sunglasses onto his head and narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t be coy. That wanker was giving you a pull, he was, and you took a fancy to it.”

“Are you serious right now? And you saw all this from the water while you were skiing?” She studied his face, thinking he would burst into laughter at any minute and tell her he was pulling her leg. His stare never wavered. “C’mon, Paul. For god’s sake. We were only making conversation, and Florida…er… _The Wanker_ …only wanted to talk about stupid boring football.”

She stood there, stunned, watching him storm away toward the house. He had a few words with Neil, and the next thing she knew, the neighbors were motoring away.

Marisol wandered into Paul's bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the shower running in the adjoining bathroom. There was no satisfaction in the knowledge that Paul felt jealousy over her. It was hard enough for them, dealing with the distance and the months of not seeing each other. Making him jealous was not something she had ever intended to do. The water stopped and she sat nervously, chewing the pad of her thumb, trying to reason why Paul had gotten so wound up over another guy talking to her. It could only be because he was insecure about their relationship. Hurt was often at the core of anger. They never really talked about how they felt about each other. Maybe it was time for that to change.

Paul walked out of the bathroom, toweling dry his hair. The sight of him, standing in the doorway, naked and tan and steamy from the shower, almost made her gasp. When he saw her he let the towel hang loosely in front of him, his eyes fixed on hers.

It felt like someone lit a match inside her, and she closed the distance between them, drawn to him like a magnet. “How could you—“ she began.

“I’m sorry I—“

They both stopped. “You go,” Marisol said.

“I’m sorry I was hard on you. I was overwrought watching you with that wanker.” He paused. “Now you go.”

“No, I just…I don’t know how you could think I would ever be interested in…Wanker…when I know that you exist in the world. I’m crazy about you. You must know that.”

The towel dropped to the floor and Paul pulled her into his arms. His mouth was on hers, and the only thought in her head was that she was holding this perfect naked man and couldn’t get close enough to him.

Paul’s hands were everywhere. He peeled down her bathing suit and as soon as she stepped out of it he lifted her off her feet and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He backed into the bathroom and spun around, kicking the door closed and setting her on the counter. A sweep of his arm sent a row of toiletries skittering to the floor.

“I’m so crazy about you too, baby,” he said, gripping her neck, his palm warm, his thumb pressed to the wildly beating pulse in her throat. It was a possessive hold, different from the Paul she knew, like he was a stranger again. A sexy stranger manhandling her, and she was willing to let him do whatever he wanted to her.

The room was bright, a window open, curtains barely moving with a breath of a breeze. She heard voices and laughter from outside, a floor below.

“We’ll have to be fast,” he mumbled, kissing her. “They’ll be looking for us.”

His hands gripped her face, and his tongue slipped against hers. She felt light-headed with how good he tasted. “Yes,” she said. “Fast.”

His hands slid down her body, cupping her bottom, pulling her to the edge of the counter. She felt his erection sliding against her, and with the slightest step forward he started to slip inside.

He groaned and tucked his forehead into her neck. “Give me a second.”

When he straightened, he reached a hand behind her and braced himself against the mirror. “You feel so fucking good,” he said, pulling out slowly before pushing in again. “So good. I want us to be together. Like this. All the time.”

“I know.” She wrapped her legs around his waist and curled her fingers into his damp hair. “I know.”

His hips rocked against hers, building into a rhythm. “Tell me what you want,” he growled, gazing into her eyes.

“I want it rough,” she said, breathless. “Manhandle me.”

He gripped her hips tightly and slammed into her, grunting each time his hips met her inner thighs.

More voices outside the window. She thought she heard someone say Paul’s name. “Hurry,” she said.

She leaned back, bracing her hands on the counter, tilting her pelvis so that his hips rubbed against the most sensitive part of her with every thrust. The warm feeling deep inside her grew, hotter and tighter until she cried out, falling apart all around him.

He followed, his movements growing more frantic, and finally finishing with a muffled groan against her neck.

Someone was knocking at the bedroom door. Paul set her on her feet and stared down at her, rubbing his thumb across her lower lip. “Tell me how good I feel inside you,” he said. “Tell me you’re my girl.”

“Yes. So good. Amazing. And I am.” She bit her lip, her brain in a fog, not sure if she was answering the questions in the right order because when he stood there naked in front of her all of the synapses in her brain got crossed. She pressed her hands on either side of his face and kissed him to make sure he got the message. “I’m your girl,” she assured him.

Paul nodded, apparently satisfied, and pulled on a pair of soft jeans without underwear. Marisol hated it when he did that, knowing she would go through the rest of the evening thinking of nothing else until the moment she could get her hands on him again.

 

The chef who came with the mansion had apparently been busy cooking since they caught their first fish that morning. They were treated to a banquet of grilled fish, roasted potatoes with peppers and onions, grilled corn on the cob and freshly baked bread. After all the swimming and skiing and sun, not to mention the sex, Marisol was ravenous. This was the best meal she’d eaten since she’d been in Miami, and everyone else seemed to agree. There was a lot to be said for staying in a mansion with a private chef.

 

Exhausted from all the time in the sun, after dinner no one wanted to do anything more strenuous than getting up now and then to change the channel on the television set. They lounged around on sofas watching _The Outer Limits_ and _The Children of Spider County._

In the back of the room Neil sat patiently going through the mail. Heavy sacks of mail sent to the Deauville Hotel had been rerouted to the house on Star Island and Neil was sorting the letters and packages into four piles. Brian insisted the boys spend time each day going through the mail and answering some of it.

Bored of the television, Marisol joined Neil at the table. "Want some help?"

“Sure, sure."

She pulled a pile of letters out of a sack and began sorting them. After thirty or so letters she noticed one addressed to Paul from Sacramento, California.

"Hello there, neighbor. Neighbor who is writing to my guy."

Neil pointed to Paul's stack of mail, but Marisol got up and walked behind the sofa, holding the letter in front of Paul's eyes. He blew out a plume of smoke, ignored the letter, and pulled her hand down across his chest, rubbing the pad of his thumb across her knuckles. "Hey," she said, "can I read this one? It's from California."

"I don't give a shit about the mail," Paul said.

"Hmmm. I guess that's a yes."

She sat on the arm of the sofa and tore open the light blue envelope.

 

_"Dear Paul McCartney,_

_When will you be mine?_

_I lie in bed and imagine kissing your face. Kissing those lovely lips. I don't know if you've ever been kissed the way I want to kiss you."_

 

Marisol drew in a breath. "Oh, my," she whispered.

"What is it, love?"

"Oh, nothing," she murmured. This letter was hotter than anything she'd ever written to Paul. She read on.

 

_“I long to be everything for you. The mother in me wants to nurture you and give you a peaceful life, the daughter in me wants to sit at your feet and learn from you and the lover in me wants to kiss you and caress you until the end of time._

_I wonder if in a past life I was your mother. Or maybe your favorite pet. Because that is how much I treasure you._

_I want you forever just a heartbeat away. I want you always sighing in my ear._

_My life stretches endlessly ahead of me and every dream waits to come true with you._

_All my love forever, Lisa”_

 

Marisol must have let out an involuntary gasp, because something piqued Paul's interest enough to pull the letter out of her hands. He read it silently, handed it back and lit another cigarette from the first one.

"How does it make you feel, inspiring that sort of adoration?" Marisol asked.

"How does it make me feel? Like somewhere out there is a sixty-year-old parolee posing as a twenty-year-old bird trying to mess with me head. Or else it's John, messing with me head."

John glanced at them briefly and looked back at the television.

"Ssshh!" George said. "Can't hear."

Marisol lowered her voice. "Is that really what you think?"

"That's how I keep my sanity.”

 

The next day brought more bright sunshine and warm, even weather, and the offers to the Beatles continued to roll in. A millionaire manufacturer offered his luxurious houseboat to the Beatles. A family loaned them a 60 foot speedboat and let Ringo drive. Ringo promptly smashed it into the dock, bending it all to heck. No one seemed to mind. A car dealership lent each Beatle his own MG to drive around in.

They tooled around Miami Beach, dashing into the occasional record store and coming out laden with albums. They drove onto Key Biscayne and took pictures of the lighthouse and frolicked in the surf. Paul and Marisol went snorkeling and came eye to eye with a manatee, then came home and fished for dinner off the dock.

That night the Beatles saw the American rhythm and blues group the Coasters perform at a local club. Paul was thrilled, telling Marisol the Beatles had been performing Coasters songs since the early days: “Searchin”, “Three Cool Cats” and “Besame Mucho” were staples of their Cavern Club performances and the Beatles performed all three songs in London when they were auditioning for recording contracts.

Next they stopped at the Peppermint Lounge on the 79th Causeway, where they surprised the hundreds of teenagers who were there dancing. The crowds began to surge and the visit was cut short. Mal and Buddy and Neil frantically shoved the Beatles and their companions into their limousine and spirited them away to the safety of Star Island.

On Wednesday another car dealership provided them with larger luxury automobiles. That night they watched Elvis Presley’s movie “Fun in Acapulco” at a drive-in theatre from the comfort of a Lincoln Continental, while noshing on popcorn and soda and ice cream sandwiches.

 

All over the U.S. people were aware of the Beatle invasion and everybody was talking about them. The newspapers were printing news about them, radio and television stations were reporting all the latest gossip about them and their music was played by deejays on just about every station across the country. Paul had been spotted with a mystery blonde. Their press agent denied all romantic rumors involving the three single Beatles and speculated the mystery blonde seen with Paul was either John’s wife Cynthia or George’s sister Louise.

The day before their return home the Beatles relaxed by the pool, reading to one another from newspaper clippings a Capitol Records man had sent down from New York.

They read about how their American “invasion” was being talked about as the most sensational and successful in the history of show business. They had broken all records in attendance and box office take wherever they appeared.

They read about how police protection was being doubled in New York in anticipation of 10,000 fans expected to gather to watch the Beatles transfer from their Miami airplane to their flight to London on Friday.

They read about how their American merchandising branch had shipped more than two million dollars worth of Beatles paraphernalia to department stores in its first week of operation.

They read about a recent survey of disc jockeys that showed that five Beatles recordings were already in the Top 25 records being played on the air, all over America.

They read about all of these fantastic things, their voices casual and cool, calm and collected.

Ringo spoke up. “Catch this one, mates. Unconfirmed report here from a Buckingham Palace source says that the Queen herself might confirm a batch of knighthoods on us!” He began to laugh uproariously. He pointed to the others. “Sir John! Sir Paul! Sir George!” He pointed to himself. “Sir Ringo!” The others joined in the laughter.

“Foony. Very foony.” John said.

“Do you think we'll be bowing to this lot soon?” Marisol heard Neil ask quietly.

“It's likely we will,” Mal answered.

 

On their last night together, Paul and Marisol escaped into their bedroom early. They made love, cuddled, whispered in the dark, avoiding the inevitable goodbye.

“I've gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of you breathing. I don't know how I'm going to fall asleep tomorrow night,” Paul said. He was cradling her head to his chest, trailing his fingers through her hair.

Marisol sighed and pressed a kiss into his neck. She’d never had a week like this with anyone. It was going to be a big adjustment to go from this forced togetherness to not seeing Paul again for who knew how long.

“We could have this every night when you come to England,” Paul continued. “When is that again? Have we settled on your move in date?”

“You know that I would be there if I could,” Marisol told him. “What's your schedule like? Are you going to be in one spot or all over the place?”

“We’re going right back into the studio to start recording the movie soundtrack. Filming starts in a couple of weeks. Long days, but we’ll be in London every night.”

Marisol cherished moments like this, before they fell asleep, her head on Paul’s chest, his sleepy, husky voice rumbling in her ear. She wanted to keep him talking forever. “A new album already? Have you written any new songs?”

“Yeah I've got a couple on the boil. Always got a couple.”

“When will you have time off again?” She was thinking of inviting him to visit her in California, waiting for just the right moment to ask him.

"We're playing five nights at the Empire in Liverpool the last week of March. Then we have a four day Easter weekend off."

"That's my spring break from school. Easter week.”

"Is that right? What do California coeds do for spring break?"

"I don't know, some of them go to Mexico or Southern California or Palm Springs."

"Then you'll be the envy of all your friends when you come to Liverpool for spring break."

As packed as Paul’s schedule was, the two of them ending up with the same week off had to be some sort of sign. But seeing him in Liverpool, potentially meeting his father, that was a rather big deal. “Are you serious?”

His hand settled on her neck, squeezing gently. “I’ve rarely been more serious in my life.”

She smiled against his warm chest, thinking it over. She could be with Paul in Liverpool while he was free and later take the train down to see her grandmother, maybe fly home from London. It was barely over a month from now. They could do this. “Then I am, as you would say, chuffed to bloody bits about spring break in Liverpool.”

Paul laughed. “As you should be.”

He tightened his arms around her and they drifted off to sleep, dreaming of soft sandy beaches and warm ocean breezes for one last night.

 

The next morning everyone was in a flurry of last minute packing and tagging bags and making room for all the new clothes and souvenirs they had bought in Miami. Paul and Marisol said goodbye at the house, a very brief kiss and a hug at the last minute. They had run out of private time. “Easter week, baby?” Paul confirmed.

“I’ll be there,” Marisol promised. It was an awkward goodbye, in front of Buddy and his other officers, with Brian, Mal and Neil watching and the others already in the limousine. But maybe Paul wanted it this way. In London in December, Paul had escaped from the room while she slept, leaving only a note. In Florida, they had both pretended like they had all the time in the world until it was too late for a tearful goodbye scene. Maybe that was his plan all along. In any case, she knew that he would miss her. The look in his eyes as he turned around in the limousine, watching and waving until they reached the main road, told her all she needed to know.

Marisol’s taxi arrived ten minutes later. Her Pan Am flight to San Francisco left from the same terminal as Paul’s Pan Am jet to New York. The terminal was packed with girls, all swarming the New York gate. She made her way to her gate at the opposite end of the terminal, checked in at the counter, and stood at the window, watching departing flights, trying to distract herself from the ache in her heart. It was still a favorite pastime, "plane spotting." She loved everything about aviation: the colorful livery of the airplanes, the uniforms of the flight crew, the excited passengers climbing the air stairs and turning to wave goodbye to friends and relatives.

She’d been standing by the window for ten minutes when the commotion of the fans grew louder and closer, and suddenly she was surrounded by a mob of dozens, then hundreds of girls, all chattering, squealing and pointing at a 707 taxiing to the runway.

A girl of about fourteen next to Marisol looked at her and smiled. “Who is your favorite Beatle?”

Marisol laughed a little, remembering the first time she’d been asked that question only six months ago by Neil’s little sister, when she’d had no idea what the question meant.

“I like them all, but there’s something about Paul,” Marisol confessed, her voice a little dreamy.

“The girl’s eyes grew round. “Me too! I'm a Paul girl too! He’s the cutest. I saw him at the hotel on Miami Beach when they were running to the ballroom. He looked right at me and winked!” She looked back at the airplane, adding softly, “Nobody believes me, but he really did.”

Marisol sighed. “Oh I do, honey. I believe you.” _Oh Paul. You terrible flirt._

The girl’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “But now he’s gone and I will probably never ever be this close to him again.” She looked completely filled with despair. “It’s the saddest happiest week of my life.”

Marisol’s arm went around the girl’s shoulders. She gave her a squeeze. “They’ll come back. Think positive.” She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation, with her arm around a total stranger who was professing to be desperately in love with her boyfriend.

They watched the 707 taxi into position at the end of the runway, hold for a moment, then thunder down the runway and lift into the sky. The noise of the departing jet was drowned out by the screams and wails of hundreds of girls at the windows.

“I’m in agony!” someone beside Marisol wailed. “I want to die!” said another. “I’m moving to England!” another girl cried.

Even after the crowd began to disperse, some of them quietly wiping at tears, some of them openly sobbing, Marisol stayed at the window, watching the 707 become a tiny dot headed north.

Soon she would be on a different jet headed west. Paul would transfer planes in New York and fly east, and every minute, every mile would take them farther and farther apart.

She would be back at school on Monday, trying to somehow get caught up, and going through the motions of her daily life, dreaming the next six weeks away until she would be with Paul again. In Liverpool. She laughed to herself, imagining the conversation when she told her mother she was flying to Liverpool, the land of dockworkers, thugs, and at least four of her favorite people in the world.

The goodbye still hurt, especially when it came from Paul’s lips. Her whole body ached at the memory of watching Paul drive away after that last whispered goodbye. Only one thing made it okay. She knew it wasn’t the last goodbye. She knew that for a fact.


	27. There Are Places I Remember

 

 

There was no one waiting for Marisol when she cleared Customs at Liverpool's Speke airport. She heaved her suitcase onto a cart and stepped out of the low red brick terminal into an overcast, grey day. Paul had promised he would be at the airport to meet her, probably with Neil to run interference for him. Marisol didn't even have a contact number for him in Liverpool, unless she could figure out how to call the fan club. Holding her sweater closed against the chill, she wheeled the cart through a crowd of arriving passengers and found an empty spot at the edge of the curb, wondering what to do next.

Within seconds a sleek powder blue roadster pulled up sharply beside her with the passenger window rolled down. A mustached man with red hair and round spectacles addressed her in a cultured English accent. "Pardon me, Miss, but we seem to be in need of directions."

Marisol barely glanced at him. "Oh, sorry, I don't know where anything is around here."

The man swung open the car door, forcing her to take a step back. “Aw hell, that's all right," he said, climbing out of the car. "I believe I'm right where I need to be." He removed the glasses and smiled, and Marisol's jaw dropped.

"You...you!" she sputtered.

"Hello, Beauty," the red-headed man said with Paul's voice, and she launched herself into his open arms. He kissed her, mustache and all, and she grimaced at the synthetic tickle of it against her lips. “I hope that caterpillar on your upper lip is removable. Kiss me again!" she demanded, closing her eyes.

Paul laughed, pulling her in for another hug. "Oh, I will, love, I will." He stepped away and reached into the back seat. "Sorry I'm late. Maybe this will make up for it." He handed her a bouquet of long stemmed yellow roses.

“Thank you, they're beautiful." She couldn't stop grinning at her ginger-haired boyfriend, while Neil climbed out from behind the wheel and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Hey you! How've you been?" Marisol greeted him.

"Great, great. The lads are keeping me busy and out of trouble." Neil loaded her suitcase into the boot and handed Paul the keys before getting into the back seat.

"This car, it's gorgeous!" Marisol gushed.

Paul patted the roof. "My brand new baby. She's an Aston Martin. Rather a step up from the Ford, don't you think?"

Marisol circled the luxury automobile, smiling at the vanity plate. "MAC64? I think you forgot to disguise your car.” She glanced around uneasily. It seemed that the car, and the three of them, were beginning to draw a small crowd of interested onlookers.

"There's no disguising this baby.” Paul proudly held open the door for her.

On the way out of the airport Marisol leaned across the seat and yanked off the red wig, fluffing Paul's sweaty hair with her fingers. Then she tugged at his mustache, finally ripping it off his upper lip and flinging it into the back seat.

Paul flinched, pretending to be in pain. "Oh, so you like it rough now, do you?" He gripped the back of her neck and hauled her across the seat. "I can give it to you rough.” The car drifted into another lane and Paul jerked the steering wheel to recover.

"Oi! Watch it Macca!" Neil complained. "How about I drive, and you can act like a bloody lunatic in the back seat?"

"How about I drive, and you can be bloody neurotic in the back seat," Paul suggested.

"It's good to see you guys still love each other. Do you realize I've never seen you drive in England?" Marisol said. "You got your driving license back?"

"The hell with a license." Paul shifted gears and slammed onto the airport access road. "You need a pilot rating for this baby."

Marisol sank into the soft leather seat, admiring the wooden steering wheel and console.The interior was so luxurious she was afraid to set her flowers down lest they scratch something.  
Paul told her about the finer features of his new car and the record player he was having installed. She watched him drive, the smile never leaving her face. It felt good to be back.

The first stop was Neil’s mother's house to drop him off. Marisol ran inside to hug Neil's mother and his younger sister Lizzie.

"I've been thinking a long time about your question," Marisol whispered to Lizzie. "Turns out my favorite Beatle is Paul after all."

"I knew it!" Lizzie said with a grin. "I knew he fancied you!”

“You clever girl!” Marisol said, laughing.

  
Only moments later, Marisol stepped out of the car at Forthlin Road and gazed up at the tiny attached house, Paul's boyhood home. A host of butterflies were doing the tango in her stomach. She drew in a deep breath. Paul was beside her, squeezing her hand. "Nothing to be nervous of, love. I'm sure he'll be as smitten with you as I am."

Paul's father met them at the door with a dish towel over one shoulder. “The girls are going potty again. Leaving messages on the door in lipstick," he said to Paul, before turning to Marisol. "Jim McCartney. Pleasure.” He took her hand in both of his.

"Dad, this is Marisol, the one I've told you about. The one who holds the key to my heart."

Jim didn't even blink. "Welcome, step inside. Care for a cuppa?"

Marisol started to answer but Paul said, "That sounds great, Dad."

Well, this would be easy. She'd just let Paul do all the talking for her.

"Actually," Paul continued, "I'll fetch the tea while you two get acquainted." He motioned for Marisol to sit on the sofa in the small living room.

Jim sat on the piano bench opposite her, his hands on his knees, watching her with his full attention. Just the way Paul did. "California, eh?"

"Yes, sir." So Paul really had been talking about her. She could hear him stirring around in the kitchen. She wished he would hurry up and get back in here with the blasted tea.

"Long way away."

"Yes, sir, it is.” She glanced around the tiny living room. A picture of the queen hung on one wall. Framed black and white photographs lined the mantle over the fireplace: a young Paul and his brother with their parents, a lovely dark-haired woman in a white suit holding a wedding bouquet, a young and dapper Jim holding a trumpet. In addition to the sofa, there was a well-worn easy chair in one corner, a newspaper open to a half finished crossword puzzle on a small table, a tiny television set and the upright piano, which seemed to take up most of the room.

Jim took a pipe out of his shirt pocket and began fiddling with it. He squinted at her. "You're rather young, aren’t you? Seventeen?"

"I'm almost nineteen," she said quickly.

He nodded. "And what do your parents think of you coming all the way over here to see a boy?"

Marisol nervously licked her lips. "To be honest sir, they don't think much of it."

Jim laughed, and the sound reminded her so much of Paul. "I imagine not."

He continued watching her with a faint smile while Marisol searched for something to say. "Paul tells me you play a mean piano."

"Oh, I've been known to tickle the ivories," Jim said. "Do you play?"

"A bit," Marisol admitted. "Forced into lessons and all that."

Jim suddenly leaped from the bench. "Show us what you learned from all those lessons!"

 _Oh dear god no._ "No really, I hardly touch it now, I couldn't..."

Jim pulled out the bench and motioned for her to get up. "Oh come now, I insist. You must remember something!"

Seriously Paul? How long does it take to pour a cup of tea? Marisol approached the piano reluctantly. Jim nodded as she sat down, adjusted the bench and played a C chord. She barely played at all now, but occasionally when her father was three sheets to the wind he would force her to play an old Irish ballad so he could bellow along and embarrass the whole family. With a slight roll of her shoulders, she began a halting introduction.

Jim set down his pipe and clasped his hands together. "There's the one!" he exclaimed. He began singing the verse, his voice powerful and melodious.

 _"There's a tear in your eye and I'm wondering why_  
_that it ever should be there at all..."_

Marisol stumbled through the verse, trying to remember the chords for her left hand. Behind her she heard the kitchen door swing open and it sounded as though Paul was finally back with the bloody tea. She hoped Jim's loud voice overpowered all the clunkers she was playing. She hoped Paul was happy about how embarrassing this was.

Paul stepped up to the piano, one hand on Marisol's shoulder, one arm around his dad's. Marisol's playing was more assured as she reached the chorus she knew by heart from years of playing it over and over for her father. Paul joined in with his dad, their voices blending and booming as if they were trying to out-sing each other.

 _“When Irish Eyes are smiling, sure it's like a morn in spring_  
_In the lilt of Irish laughter you can hear the angels sing_  
_When Irish hearts are happy all the world seems bright and gay…”_

On the last line Paul and Jim looked at each other and dragged out each word theatrically, complete with lilting Irish brogue and trills:

_“but when Irish eyes are smiiii-lllling…sure they'll steallllll your hearrrrrrt... awaaaaay!”_

"Bravo! Play it again, Mari!" Paul said.

"Oh, wow, I think that's quite enough--" she began.

"You call her Mari, do you?" Jim asked Paul quietly.

Paul nodded slowly, a look passing between them.

Jim clapped him on the back. "Very well." He turned his attention to Marisol. "Nice job.”

“Budge up,” Paul said, joining her on the piano bench, the tea forgotten. He played for the next thirty minutes while Jim bustled around, in and out of the kitchen, always in the doorway if he thought anything interesting was going on at the piano or if he felt like joining his voice with Paul’s.

At last Paul stood and stretched. “Cor, I could eat a donkey. You hungry, Mar? Dad’s making my favorite, bangers and mash.”

Whatever was going on in the kitchen, it smelled amazing. The room was barely big enough for the three of them to move around in, and the kitchen table was covered with clean laundry.

“Oh, just shove that aside,” Jim said from the stove. Marisol made herself useful by folding a pile of towels and stacking them back in the laundry basket.

When dinner was on the table, Jim questioned Paul about life in London and how the movie was going, occasionally winking at Marisol when Paul said something silly or funny. He reminded her so much of Paul.

“And what do you think of that hair of his?” Jim asked her, tilting his chin at Paul.

“Oh.” Marisol smiled from one to the other. “I rather like it.”

Jim scoffed. “I used to send him with money for the barber and he’d come back looking exactly the same. ‘Were it closed then?’ I’d ask him.”

Marisol laughed. “Maybe he’s just ahead of his time.”

Paul winked at her. “Where’s Mike?” he asked his dad.

“Down to London. You can kip down in his room, if you like, and give your friend Marisol your room.”

Paul smiled. “Sure, Dad. Sounds perfect. Exactly the arrangements we’d hoped for.”

Jim ignored him and stood to clear the plates.

 

 

When the dishes were cleaned and put away, the three of them went into the back garden and sat in lawn chairs. Paul plucked tunes on his guitar while Jim lit his pipe and entertained Marisol with stories about raising two boys on his own.

Jim told her about the time Paul and Mike fell into a lime pit and nearly drowned, screaming and clinging for their lives to the sides of the pit until a neighbor heard them and pulled them out. Jim gave them both a good hiding when he recovered from the shock of nearly losing both of his boys.

“My sister likes to say the McCartney boys were a circus, but it wasn’t easy, mind you. I had always left the disciplining to Mary, and when she was gone, I had to figure out whether to be friend or father to them or how to be both.” He pointed to a drainpipe attached to the back of the house. “The boys had a curfew, and if they missed it the front door would be locked. I caught them a few times shimmying up that drainpipe and trying to climb in the second floor bathroom window.”

Marisol laughed. “They were creative, weren't they?”

Paul looked up from the guitar and saw Marisol and his father laughing and looking at the drainpipe. He must have decided story time had gone on long enough, because he stood up and said, “Fancy a drive around Liverpool?”

He showed Marisol where he used to ride his bicycle into the woods and climb up into a tree with binoculars and watch birds. “Actual birds, Mari, not females,” he clarified. He showed her his grammar school, John’s art school, the diner where they celebrated John’s marriage to Cynthia. He showed her Mathew Street, where they played hundreds of hours in an underground club called the Cavern. “It was hell, but a very fun hell,” he said. He pointed out the Empire Theatre where the Beatles had just ended a tremendously successful five night run.

They passed two very pretty girls riding motor bikes and Paul braked suddenly and pulled to the curb. Marisol was introduced to Paul's cousin Betty and her friend. She smiled at the girls, glowing inside when Paul introduced her as ‘my girlfriend Marisol from the States.’

They drove near the Pier Head and Paul pointed out the Liver Building with its clock towers and statues of liver birds. The city looked exposed and weather-beaten. Grand old stone buildings were side by side with bomb-damaged husks and empty lots, evidence of the severe battering the city endured during the war. The feel of the city, with its working class culture and location on the water, reminded Marisol of Brooklyn.

Paul caught her stifling a yawn. "Bored already?"

"Oh, no, not at all. I just lost a night of sleep somewhere. I can't ever sleep on planes."

"Probably too busy imagining that you're flying them, eh?"

She smiled. "Maybe. I have my license now. Can't fly jets though."

Paul squeezed her hand. "That's tremendous, little lady. I'll take you home. Tomorrow is a big day."

The house on Forthlin Road was quiet when they returned. A bouquet of flowers with an envelope attached was lying in front of the door. Paul nudged it aside with his foot and unlocked the door. He led Marisol to the sofa and sat down, pulling her into his lap. "I can't wrap my head around it. You here, in my hometown. In my home. Are you real?"

"Don't I feel real?" She held his face in her hands, bringing her mouth to his. His taste, his smell, the feel of his soft lips...she melted into him, her heart tripping. It was always there, how much she wanted him.

His lips moved across hers, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other moving up her thigh, under her dress.

"Do you think we can be quiet?" he whispered, their kisses becoming more urgent.

"Not a chance," Marisol said breathlessly. They had a history of losing themselves in the moment, knocking over lamps and loudly rolling off furniture.

"I suppose we can wait one more day..." Paul said, sounding doubtful. He pulled back and studied her for a moment, his hands framing her face. "You look knackered, babe. I should let you sleep."

"You look tired too. You’ve lost your Florida glow."

"Yeah, long days. We should call it a night and get an early start tomorrow. We have somewhere important to be.”

He led her upstairs to his room, whispering about how his father had stretched a wire from the living room radio to Paul's bedroom so he could listen to Radio Luxembourg at night when he was a teenager.

She sniffed the air. “This room smells like a boy. What do boys do in their rooms, to make them always smell like this?”

“I’ll show you tomorrow,” Paul promised.

There was an enormous box of mail on the floor in a corner of the room. Marisol knelt down, sifting her fingers through the letters. So much love, so much want, all directed at this lovely dark haired boy with the down-sloping eyes and the clear, soft voice. Her eyes were drawn to an air mail envelope with a Fresno postmark.

“Another neighbor of mine wrote to you!”

“No doubt. Some deejay in L.A. gave our home addresses over the air. Nice bloke, eh? Like our parents need that shit.” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shoes, tossing them towards his closet.

Marisol turned the letter over in her hands as she looked up at Paul. “Probably another Sylvia Plath in the making.”

He laughed. “You can open it, you know I don’t give a shit about the mail.”

Marisol ran a finger under the flap of the envelope and unfolded the onion skin paper. She sat beside him on the bed and read silently, laughed, and began reading aloud.

“Dear Paul:  
I and three other girls were so upset we couldn’t go to school today because of an article in the paper saying the Beatles could not return to the U.S. until the government gives its approval. My friends and I have started a petition that we will send to the U.S. Labor Dept. You simply must come back! I can only hope and pray this letter will reach you and that your manager can get clearance for you to return. Please write me back so I will know you are taking this matter seriously. Yours always, BeatleBonnie

P.S. Please take this letter seriously. I am 14 but I feel like 80.  
P.S. Paul, you really don’t shave enough. It shows in nearly all the pictures. You know I love you anyway. Please come to California soon. If you could send a lock of your hair it would make me the happiest girl in the world.”

“Oh my goodness, this is adorable. How can you not write back to this?”

“I can’t write them all. I wouldn’t have any hair left. Would you like that?”

“No,” she admitted, curling her hand around his neck, her fingers in his soft hair. “I would not.”

Paul rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “I can’t wait until I can put my hands all over you again,” he whispered. "I want to do terribly wicked things to you and fall sleep beside you and wake up with you."

"Me too."

"Tomorrow, eh?"

"Tomorrow," she repeated.

She lay in the dark in the tiny room, imagining Paul in this room, in this bed, as a child, teenager, young adult, dreaming and planning, brimming with if-onlys. The inside of his head looked like this room. She pressed her face into the pillow, searching for Paul’s smell. Being with him here in his hometown, meeting his father, seeing the people and places who made him who he was now, had made her come to a revelation. The boy he was, the man he had become, she knew she had fallen in love with him. As impossible as it was going to make her life from now on, it was a fact.

 

 


	28. Mull of Kintyre

Marisol awoke to the sound of voices coming from outside the open window. One serious and quiet. One louder and laced with irritation. She rolled onto her back and blinked open her eyes, taking a few seconds to remember where she was. Paul's bedroom. The room was cold and she wanted to curl back into his pillow for another few hours of blissful sleep. Then she remembered he wanted to get an early start. She swung her legs out of bed, the wooden floor icy beneath her feet as she shuffled to the window to close it. Her fingers brushed aside the lace curtain.

Paul and his father were in the garden, just underneath the window. She couldn’t make out what his father was saying at first, but she could clearly hear Paul’s angry responses.

“I’m telling you, I don’t even know this bird!”

“It can’t be mine, I never touched her!”

“I was in ruddy Hamburg!”

“You’ll need to talk to Mr. Epstein,” came Mr. McCartney’s calm voice.

Marisol let the curtain fall back and stepped away from the window, hugging herself against the chill. _Jesus, what now?_  Paul wouldn't be pleased about her overhearing any of that conversation. He'd probably be his happy self today, pretending like nothing was on his mind. She'd have to pretend as well. With a sigh, she squared her shoulders and headed to the bathroom.

 

"Hello love, sleep well?" Paul was outside the bathroom door when she came out, dressed and ready for the road.

"Yeah, much better now."

He leaned down and kissed the side of her face. "I'll have your suitcase when you're ready. Looks like my car was spotted. There's a bit of a crowd outside. We may have to make a run for it."

Marisol waited in the living room, sipping a cup of tea, while Paul went outside to load the car. Despite the early hour, a dozen or so fans had gathered by the Aston Martin. Mr. McCartney stood anxiously by the front door, watching Paul signing autographs and posing for pictures. Another car pulled up and three more girls spilled out, squealing and charging at Paul.

"He needs to be off before this turns into a mob." Paul's father opened the door. "All right Son?" he yelled toward the street. Somewhere in the building a window slammed. Mr. McCartney shook his head. "No one gets any sleep when the lads are in town."

“Drive safely,” Mr. McCartney reminded Paul when he dashed back inside. He took Marisol’s hand in his. “Come back and see us any time."

"Bye girls," Paul said, pulling Marisol through the throng of agitated girls and practically shoving her into the car. "C'mon now, that's enough pictures, be good girls. See you next time."

Before he could cross in front of the car and climb in behind the wheel, a dark-haired teenager launched herself at him, trying to plant a kiss on his lips. He managed to turn his head so that the kiss landed on the side of his mouth. “There’s more where that came from, Paul!” the girl yelled. Another girl threw some sort of note inside the car before Paul managed to yank the door closed.

From the safety of the car Paul wagged a finger at the one who had kissed him. “Behave!” he admonished. He was answered by more screams. He put a finger to his lips in a futile attempt to hush them.

Marisol thought she heard someone yell, “Who is that beeetch you're with?"

"Christ." Paul let out an audible breath as they pulled away.

“You all right, Elvis?” she asked, smiling.

"We stayed in a hotel this week between shows and it was a zoo. Guess we're lucky they only just figured out I was still in town.”

"No place like home," Marisol murmured.

“I need to find my Dad somewhere else to live. Just haven’t had time to look.”

Paul fiddled with the radio and turned the volume up loud. They drove north out of the city in silence while he stared blankly at the road ahead, smoking cigarette after cigarette, ash falling everywhere, all over his beautiful new car.

As they left the city limits, Marisol couldn’t stand it any longer. She reached for the radio and turned the volume down. “Paul. I heard what you and your dad were talking about this morning. I could hear you from the bedroom.”

Paul looked at her with no discernible expression on his face for a beat before turning to stare out the front window, his jaw set. She noticed his hands tighten on the wheel.

“So,” she said. "If you want to talk about anything...."

A muscle ticked in his jaw but he made no response.

"I'm on your side, you know," she said quietly. She wanted to say so much more. She wanted to tell him he didn't have to hide his past from her, that she would understand and would support him, because that's what friends... _girlfriends_...do. But there was always a bit of walking on eggshells feeling when they first saw each other again, and she didn't want him to think she was intruding on his personal life if he wasn't willing to share it with her.

He took a long drag on his cigarette before replying. “Fan-fucking-tastic,” he said. He flung the cigarette out the window and scowled. "That lying bitch,” he muttered under his breath. He expelled an audible breath, frowning at Marisol. “Sorry, baby. I did not want you to have to hear about this. Obviously.”

Not knowing what to say, Marisol looked down at her lap, her fingers worrying a loose thread at the hem of her dress.

“It isn't mine,” Paul said, his voice rising. “I swear to you, I was in Germany at the time. This bird is a looney. I think she used to come to the Cavern, but I don't even know her.”

“Then do what your dad says, tell Brian to fix it, make her go away. She can cause you a lot of trouble and people will likely believe her.”

“Give her money you mean. Sounds like that means I’m admitting it’s mine.”

“Not really. That’s part of being famous, people can blackmail you. Sometimes it's easier to throw money at a problem and make it go away instead of fighting it.” She reached for his hand and pulled it into her lap. “I believe you. Talk to Brian, it’ll be okay.”

Paul brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “So glad you’re here, baby. It's about time.” A hint of a smile crossed his lips that didn’t go all the way to his eyes.

Marisol watched him silently for a minute. He looked like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. She knew from his letters and occasional phone calls that he was spending every waking moment filming the movie. At the end of every long day they went home for a few hours sleep, but somewhere between filming and sleeping, John and Paul were expected to write the soundtrack to the movie.

At the piano last night, Paul had played and sung a few of the songs they had recently written. He said their film producer had approached them a few weeks ago after a long day of filming and mentioned they needed a title song for the as yet untitled movie. Exhausted, John and Paul went home to write.

Early the next morning they hauled their guitars into the producer’s office and belted out "A Hard Day's Night." The surprised and pleased producer said, "Yes, gentlemen, I think that one will work just fine."

"Don't ask us for any more songs," John had grumbled as they left the office.

 

Marisol watched Paul fiddling with the radio, the skin beneath his eyes bruised from lack of sleep. She decided to make it her mission to bring that McCartney smile back. "You were such a good boy last night, waiting for me. You deserve a reward for that, I think."

She unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned across the seat and began to see if she could unzip those tight jeans of his using only her teeth.

“Jesus,” Paul said, his breath coming faster as he gripped the wheel with one hand, the other hand wrapped in her hair, holding her head just as tightly.

Marisol raised her head for only a moment. “Let me know if we pass a truck...a lorry.”

“Like I'm gonna notice that," Paul said, his voice husky.

By the time they reached the Scottish border, the smiles were back on both of their faces. Paul’s father had sent them off with cheese sandwiches and fizzy drinks for their drive. They had lunch beside a pristine lake surrounded by enormous rocky hills dotted with free grazing sheep. Driving around the lake, they noticed more than one elderly couple napping in their cars. At least Marisol hoped they were only napping.

"When we get old, Mari, will you come to the lake with me to nap in the car?"

"How could I refuse an invitation like that?" she answered.

Back on the road, Marisol read aloud from _The Great Gatsby_ to pass the time. Paul seemed to love the story and when they stopped for petrol he called the attendant “Old Sport” in a broad American accent.

In Campbeltown they rented a Land Rover for the next leg of the journey over poorly paved, narrow roads, past a craggy beach and through lovely farms on flowing hillsides. After another ten miles the public road ended at a large gate to a private farm.

“We’re home,” Paul announced with a smile. He helped Marisol over the fence and they walked uphill until they came to a ridge overlooking a lovely lake. The air smelled heavy with salt. The farm was only minutes from the sea.  
Paul looked out over the water, his face quiet. The conversation with his father this morning, or the pressures of his life in general, all seemed to be a heavy weight on his slender shoulders. Marisol leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She trailed little sucking kisses to his ear. "Thanks for bringing me here," she whispered.

His lips found hers and they kissed, their tongues sliding together. Paul hadn't bothered to shave and his jaw was rough against her cheek. He tightened his hold on her and pressed a thigh between her legs. She could feel how hard he was already and felt herself responding as he rocked his hips against her.

"I want you," he mumbled against her lips. He pulled back and looked at her, his eyes dark. "Can we?"

"Here?" she croaked, her heart galloping. He kissed her again and she knew she didn't care where they were or who saw them. She only wanted to be lost in him.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, lifting her dress. His hands slid up the back of her legs and he cupped her bottom and kissed and nibbled through her lace panties, at the junction of her thighs. She felt her knees grow weak as he slid her panties down. She braced her hands on his shoulders and stepped out of them, then joined him on the grass and fumbled at the button of his jeans, frantic to feel him inside her again. "Yes," she whispered. "Please."

He pushed her back into the tall grass and loomed over her until he was all she saw. A Paul sky. "God, baby, I've missed you so much. You're in my head all the fuckin' time."

"I know. I know. Me too." Her eyes were wide, pinned to his, her legs spread open, her dress around her waist. She tried to be still, to not rock her hips or be demanding, but every nerve in her body was crying out for more of him. She could see it in his eyes--he knew that right then she'd give him anything.

Never taking his eyes from hers, he braced a hand on her inner thigh and entered her in one long, slow push. She'd forgotten what it felt like to have him inside her like this--confident, controlling. The warmth and full feeling of him inside her...it stole her breath, her thoughts. She wrapped her fingers in his hair, pulling his face down to hers so she could kiss his beautiful mouth again.

Paul must have heard a noise that she didn’t hear. He must have somehow been listening. She was oblivious to anything beyond the sensation of his weight on top of her, the fullness of him inside her, his ragged breaths in her ear, the sun warming her face and his back. He pulled away abruptly, and she moaned in protest. "Sorry baby," he said, carefully zipping up his jeans and tucking in his shirt. He stood and looked in the direction of the road, then scooped up her panties from the ground beside them and stuffed them into the pocket of his jeans.

“We have company,” he said, reaching down to smooth her dress over her thighs and offering her a hand to help her to her feet.

Back at the road a mud-spattered truck had stopped next to their Land Rover. A farmer stepped out, shielding his eyes, looking up toward the ridge.

“Give me my panties back,” Marisol hissed.

“What are you talking about?” Paul said, already striding away.

“My knickers!” She reached for his front pocket and he shoved her hand away.

“Get off, you daft girl!”

They met the white-haired, weather-beaten farmer at the road and Paul shook his hand and explained his family connection to the farm and his interest in purchasing a part of it. The man remembered Paul's father from his visit years ago. He only used the land now for grazing sheep, he said. They might be able to work something out, if the sheep could continue to graze on part of the farm.

The farmer unlocked the gate and they drove behind his truck up a narrow lane to the farmhouse. It needed plenty of work, but it was livable, for a getaway spot. The yard was a mess, full of lumber and rusting equipment spread outside a listing old barn. Sheep rambled on the other side of a wooden fence.

Marisol reached in their Land Rover for a soda while the men talked and examined the barn. When they returned to the truck, the farmer scribbled his name and number on the back page of a seed catalog and shook Paul's hand.

Paul asked him a few more questions and the man pointed to a field on the far side of the barn. Paul shielded a hand over his eyes, pointed in the same direction and spoke some more. The farmer nodded.

"One more thing to show you, my love," Paul said, joining her in front of the Land Rover.

Marisol offered him the open soda. He took a swig and left the bottle in the car. On the other side of the barn, she saw what Paul had been so interested in. A massive upright stone set deep into the ground by people thousands of years ago for who knew what reasons.

Marisol circled the stone, then placed both hands against it. "I can feel it humming."

Paul stood close to her. "Because it's a portal, you see, for time travel." He pressed one of his hands over hers. "Where shall we go first?"

"You pick," Marisol said. "I'll follow you."

Paul didn't hesitate. "We'll go back to 1955. I'll introduce you to my beautiful mother."

"And then we'll find a way to cure her."

Paul nodded gravely. "Where to next?"

"To 1970," Marisol said. "I want to see how everything turns out."

He arched a brow. ”With us you mean? The mystery of the journey is half the fun."

"I'm not a fan of mysteries, much. Let's go to 1970 first, where they'll have discovered a cure for cancer, and take it back with us to 1955."

Paul was quiet for a minute, the wind ruffling his hair, his hand warm on top of hers. "You think the Beatles will still be together in 1970, Mar?"

"If you want them to be."

"I can't imagine why I wouldn't. What do you suppose could ever break up the Beatles?"

"I don't know, the usual things I suppose...money, artistic differences, a girl--"

Paul snorted. "A girl? Don't be daft." He smiled down at her. "How many wee bairns d'you suppose we'll have by then?"

She pulled her hand away and gave him a playful shove. "We don't have time to have kids, you move too fast. I can't catch up with you."

"I won't always be moving this fast." He pulled her in for a soft, chaste kiss.

They climbed up a hill and stood by the tree line, looking down over the farm. A brisk wind blew from the direction of the sea and Marisol had to hold back her hair to see.

"Isn’t this amazing?" Paul asked, his voice filled with awe.

Marisol looked down at the collection of wood buildings and farm equipment, trying to see it through Paul's eyes. “The setting is gorgeous. The house, it has potential. I can see why you’d love the remoteness of the place. It feels like we're at the end of the world."

“Everything, Mari, it calls to me. When all this is over, this is where I want to be. Can you picture it?"

Marisol squinted at the flock of sheep peacefully grazing and tried to imagine herself here with Paul, in the remotest wilds of Scotland. Just the two of them. The barn would be perfect for her horses, after some shoring up. They could ride to the sea, an easy trot from the farm. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and sighed. She was getting way ahead of herself. That wasn't exactly what Paul had asked.

"Yes, I can picture you here. You're kind of a nature boy."

Below them the farmer was staring over his fields, a pipe in his mouth. The wind tugged at her dress. She felt naked. Because she practically was. She held out her hand. "My underwear, please."

“I don't think so," Paul said amiably.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Indulge me.” Paul played with her fingers, smiling down at her. “I like imagining you going through the rest of the day, walking beside me, without your knickers.”

They began walking back down the hill. “Besides, I think I’ll keep them. For when you leave.”

"I suppose it's only fair. I have a rather large collection of your T-shirts," she admitted.

 

"Wanna drive?" Paul tossed her the keys and took his guitar from the back seat. He picked out melodies and lyrics for the next twenty minutes until they reached the outskirts of Campbeltown, where they returned the Land Rover and climbed back in Paul's Aston Martin.

As Mr. and Mrs. Ramon, they checked into a tiny cottage on the southern end of the Kintyre peninsula on the west coast of Scotland. The location was dramatic, crashing surf and wheeling sea-birds and beautiful sea views in every direction. It was like they were alone at the edge of the world, but a short walk would take them beside a working farm with acres of green pasture filled with cows and sheep. A short hop from the front door and they were walking on the golden soft sand of a private beach.

Inside, the cottage was a cozy little love nest. A tiny kitchen and a living room with a love seat nestled in a bay window that looked out over the sea. A small bathroom tiled in pink with a huge tub and a bedroom with a double bed covered by a downy comforter. What else could they need? Paul went back outside for his guitar. There. Now they had everything.

At the doorway to the bedroom, Paul smiled down at her, his hands on her hips. "Mrs. Ramon. Care to finish what we started?"

"I've got to hand it to you, Mr. Ramon, you really do have the best ideas.”

Their lips met and they pressed against each other, hands fumbling with clothing, until a knock at the door made them reluctantly pull apart.

It was the proprietor's wife, Mrs. Donegal, who had come to show them how to turn on the log burner "tae get the wee place warm for ye."

"Where were we?" Paul said, backing Marisol into the bedroom, his lips locked on hers. They had reached the bed and kicked off their shoes when there came another knock at the door.

Paul glared toward the sound. “Bloody hell. Considering we're at the end of the world on a remote Scottish peninsula, we certainly seem to be getting a lot of traffic."

It was Donnie, the proprietor. "I would nae park therre," he told Paul, pointing to the Aston Martin by the edge of the sand. "The tide may take her."

Paul quickly grabbed the keys and moved his beloved baby a safe distance from the reach of the sea.

They fell easily into their roles. A honeymoon couple escaping the city, with eyes only for each other. Three days and nights of idyllic bliss before Paul had to be back in London to finish filming.

Making love with Paul at the cottage was long and concerted. He kept his eyes open. He liked watching how their bodies merged. The view turned him on, although he was always gauging the speed and angles and rhythm, doing what any good musician does: tinkering with the song. Then, at a certain point, the sensations would overcome him and he would squeeze his eyes closed and growl an oath into her shoulder.

They spent their days strolling along the private beach, watching otters play in the sand and looking for the occasional seal. They explored the remains of a nearby castle and a burial site "from the Dunaverty massacre" according to Paul.

"When did that happen?" Marisol asked.

"The 1600's," Paul said. "The battle of the clans, you remember. Terrible. A greater treachery than Glen Coe."

"Oh, right. Glen Coe." Marisol nodded soberly. She had no idea what he was talking about.

The view across to Ireland was spectacular in the daytime and fantastically exciting at night with the moonlit breakers crashing on the beach under stars unaffected by light pollution. At night they fell asleep in each other's arms, listening to the water lapping on the shore.

On the second day they awoke to the sound of heavy rain.

"I've always wanted to spend an entire day in bed," Paul said. They proceeded to do just that, leaving the bed only to bathe and drive into the village for food.

When they weren't having sex, thinking about having sex, or just finished having sex, Paul entertained her with Scottish legends about selkies, seals who came onshore and shed their skins, turning into beautiful women to lure men into the sea. She read to him in bed while he played with her hair, and he played guitar in bed while she watched from the pillow next to him. He drew a picture of the two of them as children, their lips puckered, with a long distance between them, until you folded the paper in the middle and their lips met.

 

On their last night in Scotland the weather had cleared, and the sky was an endless black blanket of twinkling stars. Paul and Marisol sat on their beach huddled under a blanket, drinking Alsatian Riesling straight from the bottle. Tomorrow Paul was due back in London to finish filming, and Marisol would spend the last two days of her holiday with her grandmother in Sussex before flying back to California.

It seemed to hover over them, the fact that their short holiday would soon be over, and as the day progressed they both had grown more quiet and reflective. Now they kissed and cuddled under their blanket, passing the wine back and forth and staring across the sea towards the hills of Ireland.

"I was in Ireland about this time last year," Paul said. "What a year it's been."

"Mmm, you can say that again." It had been almost a year ago that she had lost her fiancé, and for months after his accident Marisol was convinced she would never smile again. Last year at this time she never would have dreamed she'd be sitting on a beach in Scotland, in love with another man.

"This time last year, could you ever have imagined being here with me?" Paul asked.

She laughed a little. "Get out of my head, you freaky mind reader." She took another swig of wine. "I could never have imagined you in a million years, Mr. Ramon."

He leaned closer, swirling his tongue in her ear. “I love you, Mrs. Ramon,” he whispered.

Her breath caught. She met his eyes. “Okay, what's in this bottle? It sounded like you said you love me.”

“I heard that too,” Paul said, sounding surprised.

“I love you too, Mr. Ramon,” Marisol said quietly, staring steadily into his dark eyes. “Are we drunk though?”

“Probably,” Paul said. “I hope we always will be.”

 

Back in the room Paul was still in a quiet mood. He was already in bed when she came out of the bathroom dressed in her nightgown. He held back the blankets for her and covered her snugly as soon as she climbed into bed beside him.

"Hello warm body that helps me fall asleep," he said softly.

"I'm going to miss our cold little love nest," Marisol said, gratefully curling into his warm arms.

"It could be like this every night you know." He blew out a sigh. "One day I'll stop begging you to move to England. You'll be sorry then."

"I'm already sorry." She draped a leg across his body and rubbed her palm across his chest. "I've been thinking...you said you have a few weeks off after filming. Could you...what if you came to California for a visit?"

A slow smile crept across his face. "California, eh? You want to introduce me to your mum and dad? Why Miss Hemingway, I think you might be getting serious about me."

"I might be, at that."

"About bloody time."

They made love under a sea of blankets and whispered words of love in the dark, and Marisol drifted to sleep in Paul's arms, secure and content with the knowledge that he would soon be joining her in California.


	29. California Dreamin'

"Mom? Dad? We're home," Marisol dropped her keys in the crystal bowl on the hall table in the foyer. Other than the dogs making chuffing sounds as they clicked across the wood floor to sniff the three of them, the house was eerily quiet.

"Wow. Nice digs, Mari." Paul ventured into the parlor to cast a glance around the elegantly furnished room, the walls lined with original artwork, the floor covered in plush carpeting, a grand piano gleaming beneath a sparkling chandelier. His eyes were fixed on a gilt framed portrait over the marble fireplace of Marisol and her parents and siblings. He let out a low whistle. "Your parents are fooking loaded, aren't they?"

"Ssshh!" Marisol said. "Language!"

Her mother was at that moment making her grand entrance, sweeping down the stairway in a flowing caftan, her golden hair styled in a French twist, her makeup perfect as usual.

Paul whispered next to her ear. "You never told me you were so bloody rich."

Marisol dug her fingernails into his arm. "Hi, Mom. We're back. From the airport.” She fought the urge to smooth her hair and straighten her clothes and vaguely wondered why she seemed to be the only one feeling anxious.

Marisol's mother air-kissed Neil on both cheeks and asked after his grandmother before turning a cool, appraising stare on Paul and offering her hand. "And you must be Paul."

"Mrs. Hemingway. Pleasure to meet you.”

"Likewise. I've certainly heard a lot about you."

“It’s all lies,” Paul said with a smile.

Marisol’s mother withdrew her hand but continued her scrutiny. “Your hair certainly is long, isn't it?”

”Yes, Ma’am, and it’s still growing.” Paul’s smile would have disarmed a grizzly bear, but Marisol’s mother remained stone-faced.

Marisol clapped her hands together, drawing everyone’s startled attention. “Okay. So. Dad still around?"

"No, he's off again.” Mrs. Hemingway heaved a dramatic sigh. “Gone into town after some shells or something."

"Shells?" Neil repeated.

Mrs. Hemingway waved the question away. "For his shotgun."

Beside her, to Marisol’s surprise, Paul giggled. He actually giggled.

"Well. You must be thirsty from your journey. Do come through. Bianca left some refreshments in the kitchen.”

In the kitchen Marisol grabbed three sodas and a plate of cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, her mother’s favorite snack for company.

“It’s such a nice day, I think we’ll sit by the pool. Thanks, Mum!” Marisol dashed out the back door onto the patio with Neil and Paul in her wake. Two of the dogs, Cookie and Beau, pranced alongside them.

“One down, one to go,” Marisol said, kissing Paul’s cheek. “Hmmm. Did you shave?” she asked, rubbing her thumb across his jaw.

“Yes, Mari, in England. A long, long time ago.” He bent his head and captured her lips with his. “Stop acting as though you think your parents aren’t going to like me.”

“Sorry…” Marisol gave him another kiss. “I don’t bring a lot of guys home. It’s just, my Dad…” She sighed. “You’ll see.”

Neil wandered around the patio, looking as if he wished Paul and Marisol weren’t kissing in front of him. He stood at the edge of the patio, surveying the pool and the vineyards beyond. “Nice place you have here.”

“There’s an outdoor fireplace.” Marisol pointed at the end of the patio closest to the pool. “We can have a fire tonight, sit outside and watch shooting stars.”

“It gets cold at night here?” Paul asked.

“Yeah. Big temperature drop when the sun goes behind the mountains.”

Paul found a pile of wood in the yard behind the fireplace and lifted an axe, weighing it in his hands. In a John Wayne voice he said, “Just saw you have some wood here, little lady, you want I should split it for ya?”

“Knock yourselves out. You can pretend to be Canadian, eh? Just don’t hurt yourselves.” The dogs began sniffing around their empty water dish and Marisol carried it over to an outdoor spigot.

Paul and Neil were soon happily swinging away, taking turns with the axe. Paul hooted when he got into the rhythm and split a log in one swing. “Did you see that, Mar? Manliness and grace in action, that’s what this is.”

“I like the ‘CHK’ sound the axe makes when it splits the wood,” Neil said.

“I feel so American right now it hurts,” Paul said. “I’m a modern Abe Lincoln.”

Neil finished his soda and set it on a patio table. “Where is your loo?”

“I’ll show you.” Marisol looked at Paul over her shoulder. “Don’t hurt yourself, Paul Bunyan.”

In the kitchen Marisol’s mother wanted to consult with her about dinner plans, and when Neil came out of the bathroom, Marisol’s father had returned from his trip into town. He remembered Neil from many visits to England, and they began to chat. Ten minutes passed before Marisol started to worry about Paul, and then the front doorbell rang.

Her father threw open the door, with Marisol close behind.

Paul was standing on the threshold, sweaty, breathing hard and holding an axe. Paul and her father stared at each other for five long seconds.

"Who the hell are you, some kind of serial killer?” her father demanded.

Paul must have panicked, because at the point where he should have said, “Oh hey, I’m Paul,” he dropped the axe right on his foot and said something like, “Oh hey ow shit!”

Marisol ducked around her father. “Daddy, this is Paul, he was just trying to help.”

“How so? By bleeding all over the porch?”

“Paul, this is my Dad,” Marisol continued.

Her father made a harrumph noise before turning away. “Come in then, but park your weapon on the porch.” Paul and Marisol were left standing in the doorway.

 _What are you doing?_ She tried to convey the message to Paul with her eyes, wide and disbelieving.

“The back door was locked, Mari, what the fuck?” Paul whispered.

"How about a drink, Daughter?" Marisol's father headed into the den, a masculine room with wooden beams and floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a wet bar in the corner. "Don't be stingy with the whiskey, I don't care what your mother says."

"Okay Dad." Marisol gestured for Paul to follow and busied herself at the bar, planning to be very stingy indeed with the whiskey. Her father drunk before dinner was a bad idea.

Her father sat in his favorite easy chair, his attention fixed on Paul. “You do any hunting?”

Paul took a seat on the sofa, looking around the room, taking everything in. “I’m not much of a hunter,” he admitted.

“Why the hell not?”

Paul focused on her father, an amiable look on his face. “When I was twelve, I went hunting with my dad and we shot a bird. He was laying there and something struck me. What’s so fun about killing this creature who was as happy as I was when I woke up this morning?”

“Not everyone is into blood sports, Dad.” Marisol stood over her father, one fist on a hip, holding his drink out of reach.

Her father gave her a moody look. “Hunting isn’t a sport. It’s a way to be intimate with nature. The closer I get to nature, the farther I am from idiots.” He pointed at Paul. “At least your father tried to teach you something. Too many people trying to make damned sissies out of boys nowadays. They don’t teach them to hunt, they don’t teach them to swear...if they had their way we’d all be wearing skirts.”

“Trust me, Daddy. Nobody wants to see you in a skirt.”

“Let’s have that drink, Daughter.”

Marisol reluctantly handed over the glass. “Can we just pretend to be civilized for one night?”

He grunted and took a gulp of the whiskey, then narrowed his eyes at Paul. “You fish?”

“Fishing? Sure, we were fishing not long ago, down in Miami--"

Her father grimaced. "I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about fly fishing, like a real man."

"No sir, wouldn't mind learning though.”

Marisol beamed a smile at Paul. “Want something to drink?"

"Sure, love, whiskey is fine."

From the bar Marisol heard her father's low rumbling voice for a few seconds and Paul's quiet answer. She splashed some whiskey in a glass and hurried back to Paul's side, just in time for her father to decide it was appropriate to ask Paul what he was doing with his money.

"Oh. We have accountants. Er...they're encouraging us to look at real estate."

"Real estate is good. Otherwise Her Majesty takes it all, isn't that right, Son?”

“Ah. Yes sir—“

"Terrible thing, that tax situation. Publishing is where it's at. Who owns the publishing rights to your music?"

Marisol's mother appeared at the doorway. "Dear? I could use a hand in the kitchen."

Marisol glanced at Paul, reluctant to leave him. Paul winked at her, seeming to say he could handle whatever her father dished out.

Apparently he could and did handle it, because the next time she saw Paul he had just come back from a tour of the vineyard, and her father was clapping him on the back and booming, "Good man!"

They made it through dinner without any major embarrassment, discussing literature, politics, the nightlife in Paris and the troubles in Northern Ireland. Marisol breathed a sigh of relief when the dishes were clean and she could pull Paul and Neil out to the patio and away from her parents.

The sun was setting over the mountains, and they admired the golden red view for a few minutes before starting a fire in the fireplace.

Paul dropped into a cushioned chair beside the fire and Marisol squeezed herself in next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder.

After a few minutes Neil excused himself, saying he fancied watching a little television. Marisol knew it was awkward for him, but she and Paul hadn’t seen each other in almost a month and she felt like she couldn’t keep her hands off of him. Tomorrow she’d try to behave herself in front of Neil. Donna was dropping by after classes and the four of them could drive into the city.

“Hi, my sexy lumberjack.”

"Hi, my sexy California heiress."

Marisol snorted a laugh. "I'm not an heiress."

"You mean to say all these grapes won't be yours one day?"

"Nope. All going to Marcus probably. The dogs and the horses? All mine."

"You have a lot of baggage. Good thing you're so sexy.” Paul slid a hand down her side and over her hips, squeezing gently. “That ass. So many things I want to do to that ass.”

Marisol fought the urge to crawl up his body and mount him right here in this chair. “Mmm. Soon baby, soon.” She sighed, wishing the moments away until her crazy parents fell asleep.

“What did my father say to you?”

Paul laughed. "Which time? He's quite a character, that one.”

“I heard him say something to you while I was making your drink.”

"Oh, yeah, that. He said something like, ‘My daughter is very fond of you and she means the world to me. Don't break her heart.'"

Marisol's eyes widened. "What did you say?"

"I told him not to worry, your heart is in good hands."

She smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

"You could have warned me, by the way, about your father."

"What, and miss the show?" She laughed. "Showing up at the front door with an axe, now, that was classic.”

“Just another great story for us to tell our grandchildren.” Paul curled an arm behind her knees, pulling her legs over his so she was sitting across his lap.

She tucked her head into his neck. “So my heart is in good hands, then? I can’t wait for my body to be in good hands.”

“Me too baby. If I can work up the nerve. I keep listening for the sound of a shotgun being cocked behind us.”

“You don’t really need to cock a gun any more, since 100 years ago. You’ve watched way too many Westerns.”

“Thanks for the advice, Tex.”

“Don't worry about my dad anyway. He’ll drink some more and be out by ten.”

Paul checked his watch. “Two more hours then. A long time to wait to be inside you again.”

Marisol leaped from the chair. “Wait here, lover boy.”

She returned moments later with a quilt and a green canvas pack that she tossed into Paul’s arms. “Ever built a pup tent?”

Paul grinned like someone had just offered him a puppy. “I’m a quick learner.” He picked up the bottle of Zinfandel they'd been sharing and followed her into the vineyard.

It took twice as long as it should have to reach the primitivo grapes block, because they kept stopping to kiss. This section of the vineyard was on a gently sloping hill. Between the vines after a few turns they were cut off from the lights of the house. Their own private world, lit only by a glimmering moon and a sky overflowing with stars.

They set up the tent on a soft patch of clover. Marisol crawled inside and spread the quilt. She peeked out the entrance flap. Paul was holding the bottle of Zinfandel, scanning the fields of grapes. “Hey,” she said.

"Hey." He turned to smile down at her.

"Want to come inside?”

He sat beside her and offered her the bottle of wine. While she drank, he held up a three leaf clover. "She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me."He pulled off the leaves and threw the stem over his shoulder.

"Did you have any doubt?" She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and handed him the bottle. He took a drink and pulled the cork out of his pocket, topping the bottle and propping it against the side of tent.

"Does all this clover grow naturally?”

She shook her head. "We planted it. Gives the insects something to do besides eat the grapes.”

There was a rustling sound and they both crawled to the entrance. Cookie was poised at the end of the row of grapes, her eyes shining in the moonlight like a juvenile wolf. She bounded up to them, panting softly. Marisol gently tugged at an ear. “You can stay, girl, but not in the tent. Lie down.”

"Can she keep a secret?” Paul asked, smiling.

"Yeah, she keeps all my secrets."

One of the horses nickered in the barn and Cookie went on alert, growling a response. Marisol tapped a finger on the dog's head. "No Cook. Don't start that. Lie down." Whimpering softly, Cookie turned in circles three times and plopped on the ground just outside the tent.

Marisol crawled back inside, facing Paul, within kissing distance, and wondered why he wasn't kissing her, and why he looked so serious. "Everything okay baby? You tired?"

Paul laced his fingers with hers. "I've been wanting to talk to you about something actually."

"Oh. Okay then...I'm all ears." Her heart began to pound, as she imagined the worst. There couldn't be many good reasons why Paul would want to talk more than kiss, after not seeing her for almost a month.

He looked up, gathering his thoughts. Shadows of the leaves surrounding them danced across the canvas roof. "You know I rather assumed that when school was out you'd want to spend the summer in England with me."

She swallowed. "Okay..."

“I know we haven’t talked about it, but we both want to be together, right?” He looked at her, waiting.

Marisol chewed her bottom lip. Her mother had told her in no uncertain terms that if she left again for more than a few weeks she would need to sell the horses and give away the dogs. Her parents wanted to travel this summer without being responsible for all the animals she and Margo and Marcus had collected. It was only a temporary problem. When she turned twenty-one she could access the money left to her by her grandfather. She would be able to board the animals and could afford to move to England and support herself. But that was a little over two years away.

“Yes, of course I want to be with you, I just don’t know how we’re going to make it work,” she said finally.

He nodded. “Right. That’s what I want to talk to you about. The thing is, with the movie being released, and the way our album sales are going through the roof, and Brian believes in striking while the iron is hot...I don't want to discourage you from coming back to England, because I have no idea how we're going to keep this up if you don't, but...well, fuck it, Mari, I just got a rough idea of our schedule and we're going to be on the road pretty much from June to October."

"Okay..." She felt her heart drop to her toes.

He was gripping her hand so tightly it hurt. "I mean, we're touring Europe, then Hong Kong and Australia, and the North American tour is massive."

"So you're saying we aren't going to see each other for four months?" Her voice came out in a whisper.

"No...well, obviously we can see each other when we're playing in the States. It's just that I thought we would have part of the summer to be together in the same fucking country at least. I thought I could sleep in the same bed with you, wake up with you...be with you, like a normal couple. Please tell me when October gets here you aren't going to say you can't move to England because you're back in school again.”

She shook her head, trying to think. The anxiety of the day, the wine, and now this…she was feeling a little nauseous. She pulled her hand from Paul’s and dropped her face into her palms. “I don’t know what to tell you. I can’t even think about October right now. I feel kind of sick.”

“Come here, baby.” Paul held out his arms. Marisol adjusted her position so she was sitting between his legs, her legs over his and stretched behind them, and leaned into his arms. He rubbed her back, gently rocking her. “Maybe I should have waited until the end of the week to drop this on you, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Marisol felt a single tear spill over and start down her cheek. She pressed her face into his warm neck, trying to hold back the rest of the tears that threatened. She would definitely end the week crying, but she didn’t want to start the week crying.

Paul’s low voice rumbled in her ear. ”Flying over here today, on those two endless flights, I couldn't wait to see you. I felt drunk at the thought of you. It was like the giddy anticipation before a show, only better, because I knew you were at the end of it.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him tight. “I know. I felt that way coming to Liverpool.”

“And then I saw you standing outside Customs, pinwheeling your arms at me, like I wouldn’t recognize every inch of you from a mile away, since I dream about you…Every. Damn. Night.”

She made a sort of laughing sound, remembering Paul coming through the glass door, his unmistakable hair shoved under a flat cap and wearing those enormous black eyeglasses and a thin mustache to make himself unrecognizable, and all she could think at that moment was he was still the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He’d bounced up to her, dropped a guitar case at her feet, and cupped a hand to the back of her head. “I just realized I’ve never seen you when your hair didn’t look windblown. Damn. I think I love you,” he’d said, before giving her the sweetest kiss of her life. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. He stood there, solid and strong, and if he hadn’t been holding her so tightly she probably would have slid down his body to the floor. A Marisol puddle.

“Part of me wishes you'd told me all of this at the end of the week instead of the first night,” Marisol brushed at another tear.

“I know, babe, but it’s our reality and I felt like you deserved to know.”

She nodded, sniffing against his shoulder. “Then I guess…” She pulled back, meeting his dark eyes. “I guess we better make this week really, really memorable.”

He grabbed her hips, pulling her fully onto his lap. She closed her eyes while he unbuttoned her blouse, kissing each inch as he uncovered it, then pulled it from her shoulders and unclasped her bra. “You smell like oranges and you taste like heaven,” he said.

She worked at the buttons of his shirt and helped him out of it. Her hands settled on his warm chest, her palms smoothing over his skin.

He eased her skirt down. She lifted her hips to help him and he sucked a nipple into his mouth. She groaned in response, sliding her hands into his hair.

He kissed her neck, her chin, her lips, parting them with his. She could feel the tension in his body, the way he wanted to keep going, get there. “Come on,” he whispered, sucking at her lower lip. “Put your hands on me.”

Her hands dropped to the button of his jeans and she worked it open and unzipped him, reaching inside his briefs and curling her hand around him. “Oh, God.” Her voice was suddenly hoarse. “I want this. I want you.”

The world tilted and she was on her back, staring up at him, her legs parted while he knelt and pulled off his jeans. Then he was looming over her, kissing his way down her breasts, her belly, between her legs, telling her all along the way how beautiful she was. He reached a hand between her legs while he was kissing, sucking at her. “God, so wet. So perfect. I’m going to make you go off like a bomb.”

Making love in Scotland had been amazing, so amazing that Marisol thought they could never match it. She was wrong. They matched it, surpassed it, and then they surpassed it again.

“I love you,” Marisol said, sprawled underneath him after he’d made her "go off like a bomb" not once but twice. She said it first this time, and she wasn’t even drunk, at least not from the wine. She didn’t care. She loved him and wanted him to know.

“I love you too, sweetheart. I like this place, this California. It's so warm...and soft..." He buried his face in her hair and breathed in. "...and smells so damn good.”

She held him tighter, breathing in the familiar smell of him. The hell with the summer, and the tour, and everything else that she could spend the next few months crying about. Paul had made their trip to Scotland unforgettable for her. She was going to make this week unforgettable for him.


	30. San Francisco Bay Blues

  


Marisol had early classes on Paul’s first morning in California. She fed and watered the horses and let them out to graze, with Paul beside her watching and keeping up a lively commentary. He and Neil were on England time and had been awake for hours. They insisted on driving with her to school, where they drank coffee and sampled pastries in the Student Union Building and wandered around the grounds. No one expected to see a Beatle on a college campus in Northern California, and with Paul’s hair combed back and his glasses on he looked like just another student. When they tired of the college scene, Neil and Paul took Marisol’s car into town and browsed the local record stores and bookshops, making it back to campus by noon to pick her up.

The sun was hot and they took a cool dip in the pool, then had lunch and sunbathed for a few hours until it was time to meet Marisol’s best friend Donna.

It turned out Paul and Donna were not a match made in heaven. Donna thought he was too full of himself, and he thought she was, to put it in his words, a right bitch.

They drove into the city in Donna’s car, because it was a red convertible Mustang with a white leather interior, and you couldn’t get much more fun than that on four wheels. And because Donna liked to drive so she could be in control. They drove downtown first, checking out the scene, but ended up on the other side of the city at a small Irish club a few blocks from the beach.

It was a Monday night and quiet. A single performer sat onstage with an acoustic guitar, singing what sounded like Irish folk music.

“This music is boring as hell,” Donna said. The others ignored her, discussing whether or not to order Irish beer and what sort of appetizers they wanted. The pretty waitress had a lovely Irish brogue and Neil chatted her up, asking where she was from and how she liked living in the States.

Two beers in, Donna decided to pick at Paul. “Hey Liverpool. Who does your eyebrows?”

“Aw, sod off." Paul gave her a tiny smirk.

“No, they’re beautiful, really. I would kill to have eyebrows like yours.” Donna eyed him speculatively. “They’re perfect.”

Under the table, Paul squeezed Marisol’s hand. Above the table, he gave her a wink.

Donna narrowed her eyes. “And your mouth is beautiful. Like a woman’s. Maybe we should call you Paula.” She smiled an evil little smile. “Hey Paula.”

Marisol sighed. “Donna, what is up with you? You’re acting like you have diarrhea of the mouth or something.”

Paul smirked for real this time. “Maybe we should call you “Donna-rhea.”

“Oh yeah?” Donna arched a brow. “I’d like for you to be GONE-a-rhea.”

Neil laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

Marisol slapped her palm on the table. “Okay, that’s it. I’m going to the restroom, and when I get back, you two will have kissed and made up.” She stood, slinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “I love both of you, and you must pretend to tolerate each other in my presence. It’s only for a week, you can do it.” She smacked Donna on the back of the head on her way past.

When she came out of the restroom, Paul was standing outside the door in the darkened hallway. He was on her in seconds, pushing her back against the wall, capturing her mouth with his. He pushed her blouse out of the way, tasting her collarbone. “Hello, beauty. I thought you'd never get back. Is there a lock on that door to the loo?"

"Um...I th-think so...why?" She was stammering, her heart racing.

He sucked at her lower lip. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

She opened her mouth to say something about germs in public restrooms, but Paul slipped his tongue inside, sliding against hers, in and out between her lips in an unmistakable rhythm. He pressed her against the wall, one knee parting her legs, and the last coherent thought in her head faded away. Whether he wanted to do it in a dirty restroom or in a cable car at the top of Lombard Street at rush hour, when he set his mind to convincing her with his mouth and hands, she was oblivious to anything or anyone else. She wrapped one leg around the back of his thigh, her hands on his hips, gasping as he pushed her harder against the wall.

“Oh for god’s sake. I can never unsee this. My eyes are bleeding. You're so gross.” Donna made a disgusted noise as she pushed past them into the women’s restroom.

Paul lifted his head, gazing down at Marisol, his eyes dark and unfocused. “I think she likes me. I think it's going really well."

Marisol took another minute to peel herself off of Paul and collect her thoughts before following Donna into the restroom. Donna was reapplying a coat of Passion Pink lipstick. Their eyes met in the mirror. “I need you to back up off of Paul. He’s having to restrain himself from giving you a good tongue lashing.”

“I’m sick of this place, it’s a bore. Let’s walk to the beach,” Donna said.

“Dee? Can you tone it down please? He’s really a sweet guy. You're being kind of a bitch.”

“He’s no Dan,” Donna said, her voice petulant. “Dan thought the sun rose and set with you. This one, he thinks all he has to do is lift a brow and the panties drop.”

Marisol lowered her eyes, scuffing the toe of her sandal at a worn spot on the wooden floor. It was kind of true. Paul looked at her, she melted. And what was so wrong with that, exactly? “Look, Dan is gone, and Paul makes me really, really happy, when we're together.”

Donna made a scoffing sound as she dropped the lipstick back in her bag. “Don’t forget, Mary Sue, falling in love isn’t about who makes you feel the best, but who makes you feel the most miserable when they leave.”

"Great advice." Marisol looked over her shoulder, her hand on the doorknob. “Got a dime? I need it for the Suicide Hotline.”

Donna grimaced, joining her at the door. “Okay, I’ll sheathe my claws, but if he hurts you, I’ll dismember him.”

Marisol slung an arm around her friend's neck. “Thanks for playing, Crazytown.”

 

Back in the car, they drove south down the coast highway with the top down and radio blaring. Even Donna cheered when a Beatles song came across the air. They parked near an old military installation on top of hundred foot high sandstone cliffs with spectacular views of the ocean. A brief walk through a copse of trees led them to a pair of old concrete gun emplacements from World War II where soldiers used to watch for the Japanese invasion that never came.

Paul and Marisol hunkered down out of the wind in front of one of the pill boxes. A hundred feet below them, dogs frolicked on the beach. Tourists never found this place. It seemed to be only dog walkers and the occasional history buff. The sun went down in a picture postcard display over the Pacific, but Paul and Marisol barely glanced up. They were too busy whispering and giggling and staring into each other's eyes to notice.

Neil and Donna sat a few yards away, their backs against another pill box. Donna talked about surfing in La Jolla while Neil seemed to hang on her every word. When the sky darkened, Neil and Donna headed down the steps to walk on the beach, leaving Paul and Marisol alone. Paul pulled her in front of him, his arms wrapped around her chest, placing small nibbling kisses on the back of her neck.

“My dad thinks I should get married,” he said after a few minutes.

“Oh really. Does he have any one in particular in mind?”

“Don’t think so. You’d be a good candidate though.”

Marisol didn’t respond. She leaned back against his chest, her pulse hammering in her ears. Married? The thought was equally thrilling and terrifying.

“Why does he think you should get married?” she asked finally.

“He says it would settle me down, and settle the girls down.”

“Oh. NOT a good reason to get married.”

“So…you don’t think it’s a good idea?” He tilted his head to look at her, a smile tugging the corners of his lips.

She wondered if she would ever stop feeling the jolt to her heart when he smiled like that at close range. She chose her words carefully. “I think you’re a little young...maybe.”

“Huh. This is coming from the girl who was engaged at what, seventeen?”

She sighed. “I didn’t have all the options you have. You’re a Beatle. Why would you restrict yourself to just one girl?” She really, really wanted to hear how he would answer this question.

He rested his chin on her shoulder. “Because I’m a human being. Everyone longs to have that soul connection. Even a Beatle.”

A quiet minute passed before he told her, “Ringo and Mo are getting serious, and George has met someone. Looks like I'll soon be the last single Beatle.”

“Oh God.” Another reason for more girls to set their caps for Paul, she thought. He’d be the only single Beatle, the object of even more fan adoration. Fantastic.

He got to his feet and reached a hand down to help her up. “Walk on the beach with me?”

The beach was windy and cold, but Paul insisted on removing their shoes and walking up to the frigid surf.

“Is it always this fookin’ cold?” he asked.

“You will never dip your toes in a warm ocean in San Francisco,” Marisol promised. "It's romantic though. Doesn't it make you want to go home and crawl under something warm?"

"It's so sexy when you talk dirty." They kissed and ran from the tide and played with a few of the random off leash dogs. Before they left, Paul made Marisol promise to return with at least one of her dogs to play in the waves while the sun was shining later in the week.

 

Back home in the evenings, Paul and Marisol sat by the outdoor fireplace next to the pool, a bottle of wine close at hand. Paul spent hours playing the guitar, blissing himself out, surprising himself with something new. Then they would snuggle under a blanket in a lounge chair, watching the sky for falling stars, listening to the music of nature: the yip of a coyote, the hoot of an owl, the leaves rustling in the oak trees by the house.

When everyone else was asleep, or when they were too tipsy with wine to care about being caught, they would sneak away to Paul’s room and make love and giggle and whisper until late in the night. When Paul fell asleep, Marisol would tiptoe back to her room to catch a few hours of sleep herself before her alarm went off.

 

On Tuesday afternoon the four of them drove back into the City, stopping at the huge record stores on Upper Haight. Paul bought an armful of new albums, mostly R & B, and they strolled through Golden Gate Park and reclined on the grass beside a lake and ate a lunch of sandwiches and sodas.

“Where are your swans?” Paul asked.

“No swans,” Marisol said. “We’re allowed to eat them here. We don’t have a queen telling us what to do, you see.”

At dusk they drove up a narrow curvy road to the top of Twin Peaks with a trunk full of helium balloons and twelve one dollar bills.

Marisol divided up the bills from the back seat and handed out markers, and they wrote notes on the money. Paul showed her what he had written: _Paul McCartney was here, Buy more Beatles record_ s, and _Paul loves Marisol_. She chewed the end of her pen thoughtfully before writing _I love Paul, PM + MH_ surrounded by a heart, and _I left my heart in London_.

She leaned over the seat to see what Donna was writing. Donna reached around and pushed her face away. “Shove off, loser.”

Marisol saw Neil writing something about Liverpool before he covered the money with his hand. “God, it’s not a huge secret. You guys are so weird. We’re releasing them to the Universe and you won’t even show me?”

They carefully lifted the trunk and tied each of the dollar bills to the end of a string attached to a balloon, then released them one by one at the edge of the cliff. The wind grabbed the balloons, violently scattering them in all different directions over the sparkling city.

With the balloons all on their way, Paul and Marisol crossed the parking lot and began climbing one of the peaks to see if they could view the Bridge from the other side. They walked up a dozen of the crumbling, dirt-covered steps, no handrails, clinging to each other and fighting the gusts. Marisol turned to take a picture of Paul with the city behind him but had to give up. She couldn't hold her hand steady because of how hard the wind was pulling it. It was like being outside in a gale, the wind whipping so violently they couldn’t hear anything else above the roar.

“I feel like I may be literally blown off this mountain tonight,” Marisol shouted.

“This shit just got real.” Paul grabbed her hand and pulled her back down to the relative safety of the parking lot, where the peaks blocked the worst of the wind. They sat on a stone wall watching Market Street light up as the sun went down. On top of San Francisco, with a view to the ocean, the wind whipping their hair, Paul gripping her shoulder and stealing kisses, pointing at the balloons rising higher in all different directions, laughing about the way they’d almost died trying to climb the peak… Yes, this was it, Marisol thought. The happiest day of her life.

 

On Wednesday after classes they stayed closer to home. Paul and Marisol took the horses up into the hills, spread a blanket in a forest of fir trees and made love, taking their time, slow and sweet.

They rode back down to the house, picked up Neil and drove to the tiny town of Bodega, to see where Alfred Hitchcock filmed _The Birds_ early last year. Farther up the coast, they drove past miles and miles of cattle ranches and dairies before hiking to the cliffs and sitting at the grassy edge, watching sea lions sunning themselves on the beach more than a hundred feet below.

That night they watched television in Donna’s tiny apartment in Petaluma. Paul and Marisol snuggled on the couch, making eyes at each other, until Neil and Donna left to go pick up a pizza. As soon as the door closed behind them, Paul and Marisol reached for each other, huge grins on their faces.

“Do you know when I’m around you I feel like I just got out of prison, all the bloody time? Do you think that’s natural?” Paul asked between kisses.

“I don’t know if it’s natural, but it seems to be contagious.” She locked her lips with his as they stumbled to the back of the apartment.

Thirty minutes later they were sitting innocently on the couch, playing a hand of cribbage, when Neil and Donna got back with the pizza.

Donna looked at Marisol, her brows drawn together. “Is your hair wet?”

“Yeah, I took a quick shower.”

“Hmm. Wait…what?”

Marisol opened the bottle of wine she’d brought from home and they ate in the living room in front of the television. Marisol couldn’t help noticing Donna staring at the floor the whole time they were eating, not saying much. After dinner the girls carried the empty glasses and plates into the kitchen while Neil and Paul went outside on the balcony to smoke.

“Are those your socks?” Donna asked, the moment the door closed behind them. “On Paul’s feet?”

Marisol realized Donna had not been staring at the floor for the last fifteen minutes but at Paul’s feet.

“Yeah, so? His feet were cold so I gave him mine and I took a pair of yours.” She wiggled her toes. “So yeah, thanks. I’ll wash them and give them back.”

“All I can think right now is that if he’s wearing your socks then he’s definitely wearing your panties. Did you have **_the sex_**? God. You two are so gross.”

“Yes. We had _**the sex**_. Goofball.”

Donna groaned. “Was it in my bed?”

“No, of course not! If you must know, it was in the shower, which is how his socks got wet. Don’t ask.”

“Ugh. Don’t worry.”

 

“I’ll say one thing for you, Hemingway. You have some good-looking friends,” Neil said in the car on their way back home.

“She’s off limits, cowboy. I could never explain it to Angela if you hooked up.”

“No worries. Little Miss Hollywood isn’t interested in a roadie from Liverpool.”

“Not even a roadie for the biggest band in the world? You sure about that?”

“Leave that one alone, Neil.” Paul interrupted their musings. “That one is a man-eater.”

“Yeah, she could hurt a man,” Neil said wistfully. “If he was very, very lucky…”

 

On Paul’s last night in California, they rented a room in an old fashioned motel a block from the ocean and not far from the airport. Neil’s room was two doors away and he turned in early, claiming he needed to rest up so he could hit the ground running when they landed in London and the Beatles headed back out on the road.

Paul sat on the end of the bed with his guitar, plucking out a tune, his eyes on Marisol. She pulled up a chair across from him, her feet propped on the bed beside him.

“California is very nice,” Paul said softly. “Very nice to me.”

Marisol smiled. “I think so too.”

“Do you think you could ever leave it, though? Live somewhere else, like, say…London?” He leaned in, his eyes searching back and forth from one of her eyes to the other, as if the answer would appear in one of them.

Her heart lurched. “Of course I could. When I have money and I can support myself, I wouldn’t hesitate. I mean…my grandma…she might need me nearby.”

“Yeah. There is that.”

He began to sing to her, really more of a riff with ad-libbed words, some of them not quite rhyming, but it sounded like the prospect of four months on the road was wearing on him.

_“Will you still be home, will you still be here,_  
_will you love me in the same way I love you?_  
_Dirty laundry and a heart that sings your name,_  
_will your smile still be from ear to ear,_  
_will your heart still be the same,_  
_will you still be here when I get back home?"_

Her hand went automatically to her heart. “Oh…That’s so beautiful. What is it?”

“Just a little ditty. I call it Mary Soul.”

She laughed. “Are you going to record it?”

“Oh no. That one is only for me, and a pretty little girl I know with windblown hair and a great smile.”

“I got you a little something,” she said, unable to stop smiling.

He put down the guitar. “I hope it’s five-foot-five and smells exactly like you.”

She laughed. “Not exactly.” She took a small package out of her handbag.

His eyes lit up as soon as he saw the plastic device inside. “A portable tape recording machine?”

“It’s a prototype of a compact cassette player, made by the Japanese. This company called SONY. It’s going to be at the World Fair in New York this summer. My dad had some kind of sweet connection and got one.”

“God, this is fantastic, Mari. I can record songs, lyrics, in the car or wherever I’m thinking of them.”

He pressed the play button and his eyebrows shot up at the sound of Marisol’s voice.”Hi, baby. Wherever you are on June 18, remember that I’m thinking about you all day and I have a big wet kiss for you when you get back to me. Happy birthday, I love you, Paul.”

He gave an exclamation of delight. “Come here.” He pulled her into his lap and kissed her, his lips warm and sweet on hers. “There better be more cassettes in that box because I’m not erasing that one.”

His mouth grazed her earlobe, slow, shivery kisses that left her weak. “I have something for you too.”

“I hope it’s five-foot-eleven and not wearing any clothes.”

He pulled back, laughing. “That’s always yours for the asking, silly girl. I want to show you something else first, though.”

 

With a projector borrowed from the owners of the motel, Paul turned off the lights and started a film. It was a movie he’d taken in Scotland, shots of their beach hideaway, Marisol waving at him from the shore, Paul turning the camera on himself and smiling, wiggling his eyebrows and winking, then switching the view back to Marisol walking down the beach. “It’s a little film I made for you when we were in Scotland.”

Mario cried into his shoulder.

He held her, saying “Sshh. Tonight is for romance, tomorrow is for crying."

She somehow held back the tears. They rolled onto the bed, kissing aggressively, Marisol kneeling astride him, his arms flung above his head in surrender, their fingers interlocked.

They made love and promised each other it wasn’t the last time, and with their arms wrapped around each other they fell asleep to the distant sound of a fog horn blaring somewhere out in the bay.

At the airport the next morning, Neil dealt with the luggage and left Paul and Marisol to say goodbye beside her car, standing together in the bright sun.

“Thank you for everything, I had a tremendous time. Tell your parents thanks again for me,” Paul said, sounding somehow stiff and formal. He stared at her neck, her mouth, everywhere but her eyes. He licked his lips and closed his eyes, holding out his arms. He was terrible at goodbyes, Marisol realized.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning against him. He felt warm and solid. He felt like hers, he smelled like hers, and yet she had to give him back. Because, like Brian said, he belonged to all the girls of England. And this summer, he belonged to all the girls of the whole damn globe.

He held her so tightly her breath left her body. She pressed a kiss into his neck and he made a little groaning sound. “I better…uh…I should…”

“Yeah, I guess you should…”

They each took a step back, and in the stark sunlight Marisol saw a sheen of tears in his eyes, before he fumbled in his jacket pocket for his shades and jammed them on his face. With the sunglasses in place, he looked down at her. “You’ll write me?”

“Of course.” She bit her lower lip and a small shudder went through her from the effort of holding back the tears. She would write to him, religiously, even though she doubted he’d ever see most of the letters, since he’d be nowhere near Brian’s office.

He nodded. “I’ll write you too. It will go very fast, the summer.”

“Right, right. I’m sure it will fly. Have fun out there.” She drew in a ragged breath and squeezed her eyes closed.

“Thanks again, baby, for being so warm and inviting. Thanks for making me your import of choice.”

That made her laugh a little, and he grinned, and somehow she knew they would be all right. Because even when her heart was breaking, he could still make her laugh.

He bent his head and brushed his lips across hers, the briefest kiss. Then he picked up his guitar case and walked away from her with his head down, into the terminal where Neil waited, not once looking back at her.

She dropped her head onto the steering wheel and sobbed for ten minutes, until a police officer tapped on the window and asked if she was all right. She dragged her arm across her runny nose and nodded that she was all right, and the officer told her she needed to pull into the short term parking lot to finish her crying jag.

“Will do,” she said on a sob. “Thanks for being helpful.”

She blew her nose and covered her puffy eyes with a large pair of sunglasses and sucked in a few deep breaths to compose herself for the drive back across the bridge. As she pulled away from the terminal, she flipped on the radio for a distraction. Paul’s voice blared across the air waves. “I’ve got arms that long to hold you, and keep you satisfied…”

“Oh fuck no.” She flicked the radio off and stared out the front window, the scenery sliding by unnoticed. She needed to sign up for summer classes or babysit the twins more or something. Volunteer at the animal shelter? Take cooking lessons? Anything to make the hours pass. Unless she pulled herself together, this might prove to be the longest summer of her life.


	31. A Hard Day's Night

 

The Downtown San Francisco Hilton looked like a Hollywood set for an apocalyptic disaster film. The streets were lined with hysterical fans waving signs and shrieking madly. Scores of police were trying to contain the hordes of screaming fans. Marisol had to park a mile from the hotel and wait for a bus to take her close to the entrance. On the standing-room only bus she’d overheard a group of girls her own age plotting how to get inside the Beatles’ fifteenth floor hotel rooms. How did they know this? she wondered. Even she didn’t know what floor the Beatles were on.

She pushed her way into the lobby past uniformed sheriff’s deputies wearing pistols on their belts. Girls were everywhere, wailing, some with tears running down their faces. There was a long line of disgruntled guests and would-be guests in front of the counter. Finally she reached the front of the line. “We’re sold out,” the hotel clerk snapped.

“I’m trying to reach a guest by the name of Neil Aspinall.” Marisol had to shout to be heard above the commotion.

The hotel clerk appraised her coolly and pointed to the house phone.

“Can you connect me with Neil Aspinall?” Marisol yelled into the receiver.

“There is no such guest registered,” came the clipped reply.

“He’s with the Beatles,” she shouted.

“They’re not accepting calls,” said the hotel operator, and the line went dead.

Marisol stared at the receiver for a few seconds before replacing it. Great. So she’d have to rely on Paul to remind Neil to come down and find her eventually.

Slinging her overnight bag onto her shoulder, she shoved her way toward the main elevators where girls were weeping on the carpet in front of a weary looking security guard. This was madness. At a nearby bank of telephones, several suited men held their hands to their ears as they tried to complete their calls. She wondered if the operator would put a call through to Neil if she asked a man to place the call for her. Adjusting her bag, she checked her slim gold diamond watch, a birthday present from Paul. The Beatles had landed only an hour ago, and the city was in chaos.

“I know you.” A dark haired man appeared in front of her with a grin on his face. He held out his hand. “Larry Kane.”

Marisol felt her tense expression melt away as she smiled back. A familiar face in the madness. It was the radio man from Miami. “Oh, hey!” She took his hand. “Marisol Heming—“ She broke off, remembering Paul didn’t want newsmen knowing her last name. He didn’t want her to be hounded by the press the way Cynthia and Maureen were.

Larry didn’t seem to hear her anyway over the noise around them. He hooked a thumb at the elevator. “Going up?”

“Yes, well…” She gestured to the Beatles Press Pass prominently displayed on Larry’s suit jacket. “I don’t have a pass, I was hoping to get through to Neil Aspinall…could you tell him I’m here, do you suppose?”

“You bet. Wait right here. If he can’t get away, I’ll grab another pass and come back down for you myself.”

Marisol set down her bag. Her shoulders hitched involuntarily at a piercing shriek directly behind her. She scratched at her neck. If she stayed down here much longer she might break out in hives. More stress right now was the last thing she needed.

The summer had started calmly enough. Marisol had signed up for summer classes, to make up for taking last Fall off and also to get on track to graduate early. If she worked hard, she could be finished with her degree by the time she turned 21. Summers were busy in the vineyard and in the winery, so there was plenty for her to do there, especially since the family business had reached a crisis point in the last few months. Marcus and their father had been approached by the owner of a larger winery who wanted to buy the business, and they were considering the offer. It would mean they would keep the vineyard, but they would sell the harvest to someone else for processing into wine. Her father was in favor of selling, but Marcus was adamantly opposed.

In the midst of this turmoil, Marisol’s mother had discovered a lump in her breast. The doctor pronounced it cancer, and everything else in the Hemingway family came to a screeching halt.

The film A Hard Day’s Night was released in early July just before her 19th birthday, but Marisol was so caught up in the family drama that the movie and the soundtrack and everything else to do with Paul’s success hardly registered on her radar.

Paul had called from England on her birthday, just back from Australia and brimming with stories of their successful world tour. He had a week off before they began a tour of Europe and wanted Marisol to fly over at the last minute to see him.

Marisol couldn’t give it even a moment’s consideration. “My mother found a lump in her breast. It’s cancer. Surgery is at the end of the month.”

There was a long pause. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry,” Paul said at last. “I’m sure she’s going to be fine.”

Neither of them spoke for a long beat. Marisol was well aware that breast cancer was what had taken Paul's mother from him, and she didn't know if the details of her mother's illness would dredge up painful memories for him. “Do you want me to see if I can fly to California for a few days?” he asked.

“No, no…it’s fine.” Marisol couldn’t imagine adding Paul to the mix right now. Her mother was crying all the time and her father was drinking even more than usual. “I’ll see you next month?”

“Right, right. August 18th. San Francisco. First stop on our U.S. tour.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Marisol said, biting her lip and praying that her mother was going to be okay and all of this would be over by the time Paul got here.

And now here she was. August 18th had arrived, her mother was a week out of surgery and recuperating at home. For a chance to be with Paul for twenty-four hours, Marisol had left her mother at home and driven into the city and navigated the insane traffic surrounding the hotel and the mob scene in the lobby. It would all be worth it to see him again.

  
It was another thirty minutes before Neil appeared, muscled her through the crowd and past the suspicious glares of the hotel security men and whisked her into an elevator. “Welcome to Beatlemania,” he said as the elevator doors whooshed closed.

Marisol squeezed his arm and blew out a relieved sigh. “I’m so glad to see you. The operator wouldn’t put me through.”

Neil let his head fall back against the wall of the elevator, weariness plain in the slope of his shoulders. “What a fooking nightmare. We’ve been traveling for two days. And we still have a room full of press to deal with.”

On the fifteenth floor he escorted her past another security guard and into a large anteroom with a table covered with what looked like the leftovers of dinner: plates with ends of bread, fries with ketchup, empty salad bowls. There was a bar in the corner with bottles of scotch and soft drinks.

“The lads are finishing up press interviews. Help yourself to the bar and have a seat.” Neil lowered his voice. “He knows you're here, it shouldn't be long.”

The room was filled with cushioned chairs and sofas occupied by a dozen people waiting for their chance for an audience with the Beatles. Marisol took a seat at one end of an empty love seat and settled back to wait some more.

She could tell she was being scrutinized and raised her eyes to find an attractive middle-aged woman giving her a once-over.

“Hello, Dear. Who are you here to see?”

Marisol swallowed. “I’m…a friend.”

The woman nodded. “Of which one?”

“Of Neil. We grew up together.”

The woman smiled. “But which one of the Beatles are you here to see?”

“Excuse me,” Marisol said, “I think I’m going to get a drink.”

While she was at the bar trying to figure out what she wanted to mix the scotch with, she heard the woman talking to another journalist. “I’d like to have a private interview with John Lennon,” she was saying.

“You’re rather optimistic, aren’t you?” Neil addressed the woman from the doorway before disappearing into the next room.

Drink in hand, Marisol stood by the window, watching the mob scene on the street below. The female journalist appeared at her elbow. “How would you like to write a story for Cosmopolitan magazine, Darling?”

Marisol stared at her, trying to figure out if this woman recognized her or was fishing for any sort of information she could get from anyone with a connection to the Beatles.

“There would be payment involved, of course,” the woman continued, “and your name on the byline.”

“I really don’t think your readers would be interested in my relationship with Neil.”

The woman handed her a card and patted her arm. “Give me a call, Dear, if you change your mind.”

Groups of people were ushered in and out of the sacred room where the Beatles were ensconced as Marisol watched from the window. Most seemed to be journalists, but she could tell from their conversations that some of them had merchandising opportunities they wanted to discuss with Brian.

Almost an hour later, the last of the newsmen were led out of the Beatles’ suite followed by Brian Epstein. One of the newsmen asked Brian what had become of plans for a ticker tape parade through San Francisco. "Security," Brian said, waving a hand. He seemed to be distracted by about a dozen different concerns at once. He didn't miss much, though, and he noticed Marisol standing by herself at the window and made his way to her when the journalists had filed out of the room.

”Miss Hemingway, lovely to see you,” he said in his polished accent. Even after flying for the better part of a day, Brian looked impeccable in his Savile Row suit and silk monogrammed shirt.

Marisol shook his outstretched hand. “Good to see you, Mr. Epstein. Welcome back to America.”

Brian lowered his voice. "Delighted to have you join us, but it would be best if you kept a low profile. We're traveling with a phalanx of press, you see, and--"

Marisol raised a hand to stop him. "Brian, I know the drill. I'll be so quiet no one will know I'm here." She winked and added, "I promise not to swing naked from any chandeliers, just this once."

He reddened and fiddled with his cuff links. “Very well. Carry on.”

Marisol smiled. Maybe she was perverse, but she loved how easy it was for her to make the manager of the biggest band in the world blush. After the summer she’d had and what she’d been through today to see Paul, she was spooling for a fight if Brian tried to delay her.

Neil stood at the door waiting, and when their eyes met he motioned to Marisol and ushered her into an adjoining suite with four doors leading off from a central lounge. George sat at a table with a man who seemed to be showing him how his recording equipment worked. The rest of the lounge was empty except for a waiter clearing away empty plates and glasses.

Her heart started to pound. The anticipation was almost unbearable. She’d been waiting so long to see Paul that it seemed impossible it was really about to happen.

Neil tapped on one of the doors and opened it without waiting for a response.

“Your party has arrived,” he announced, standing aside to let her enter, then closing the door behind her.

Paul sat on the bed watching a soundless television, a radio in his hand and headphones in his ears, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. He grinned when he saw her and swung his legs off the bed, pulling off the headphones and dropping the cigarette into a mostly empty glass of whiskey on the nightstand.

“My party!” he said, opening his arms wide.

He was barefoot in a crumpled white shirt and narrow jeans, looking fit and healthy even if his eyes looked exhausted. He looked like her Paul, yet different, somehow. He looked like a man completely at ease in his own skin, pleased with himself, the world by the tail with a downhill drag. He dazzled her so much at close range that she got short of breath wanting more of it.

She flew across the room and into his arms. He lifted her off her feet and swung her around. “My god, I can’t believe it, finally!” He was laughing and kissing her hair. She never wanted the hug to end.

“How have you been, baby,” he said, putting her down, a huge grin on his face.

“So much better now.”

He pulled her face to his and kissed her. She tasted the cigarette he’d just smoked and the scotch he’d been drinking. He smelled like hotel shampoo. His hair was damp and his cheeks were smoothly shaved.

“How’s your Mom?” he asked between kisses.

The door opened and she heard a familiar voice. “Hemingway!”

“Lennon!” she said, laughing as Paul released her. John bear hugged her, and the hug seemed to go on and on while she laughed into his shoulder.

“Let her go, John,” Paul said, his voice weary.

“I only wanted to say goodnight,” John said.

“Welcome to California!” Marisol said after John finally released her.

“So this is California. I never realized you’re all so bloody mad! They're standing on the side of the road with tears pouring out of their eyes. Did someone die?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Marisol said. “Not even for Elvis.” The constant screams from the street could be heard even up here on the fifteenth floor.

“Bloody mad,” he muttered. “They’ll all die of laryngitis.”

Ringo wandered in to bum a cigarette. He nodded at Marisol and stumbled out as if sleep walking.

“All of you look exhausted,” she said. John was wearing his glasses and looked rumpled from the hours on the road.

“We played in Blackpool two nights ago and we’ve been on the way here since then.”

“I know your schedule looked wicked. How was Australia?”

“Marvelous, but for the mongoose,” John said.

She laughed. "Mongoose?"

"Monsoon," Paul said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He pointed to the television, now showing scenes of the earlier bedlam as the Beatles arrived at the San Francisco Airport. They gathered around the set and Paul turned up the volume.

“Scenes of hysteria at San Francisco International Airport tonight as nearly 10,000 fans awaited their idols. The Beatles begin their 25-date American tour with a sold out show at the Cow Palace tomorrow night…”

“You’ve sold out the Cow Palace!" Marisol enthused. “Seventeen thousand seats. Remember that night we daydreamed about you selling out the Filmore?”

“I do,” Paul said, a slow smile spreading across his face. He leaned to whisper in her ear. “I recall a lot of other things about that night too…”

She shivered, remembering that first night they’d spent together.

The news report ended and a commercial for Tide came on. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to enjoy your second honeymoon,” John said. "Or is it third? I can't keep track. Give me another hug goodnight, Hemingway.”

Marisol wondered if John was drunk. She couldn’t remember him ever being so…friendly.

Paul locked the door after him. "Now that we've been visited by two of the three bloody Magi, maybe we can finally be alone.”

“What's George doing?”

“Working on his tour journal. He's our inside reporter. Glad it's not me.”

Paul yawned and stretched and sat on the side of the bed, beckoning to her, his lips curved in a sexy smile. She slid off her sandals and walked toward the bed. As soon as she was an arm’s length away, he pulled her into his lap so that she was straddling him. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, then he wrapped his fingers around her neck and their lips met in a grinding kiss. He claimed her mouth with his, devouring her until she pulled away to catch her breath.

He had one hand under her dress, squeezing her ass, pressing her down against his erection. his other hand working at her zipper. He pulled the straps of her sundress over her shoulders, nibbling at her ear. “I missed you. I missed us.”

His voice in her ear made her moan. "Me too." She pulled away, clutching her dress over her breasts, her heart pounding wildly. They’d been alone for barely a minute and he already had her undressed.

His hands paused and he looked at her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know…I feel…awkward or something. It’s just been…you know, a long time.”

“Hmm.” He nibbled at her neck, both hands rubbing her back, moving around to cup her breasts on top of the dress she still held onto. “Do you know what I think we should do about that?

She shook her head, trying to relax beneath his expert hands.

“I think we should take off all our clothes, and you should rub yourself all over me, and if we’re very lucky maybe my cock will end up inside you somehow, and after about thirty minutes of that, we'll start to feel less awkward. I promise.”

"You're such a sweet talker," she teased. "How are you still single?"

He unclasped her bra and pulled her dress out of her hands. “God. You’re beautiful.” He dipped his head to pull a nipple into his warm mouth.

She arched her back, squeezing her eyes closed. She wanted this. She had wanted it all summer, really needed it when her family started falling apart around her. So why did she feel like Paul was pushing her, treating her as though sex was the only thing on his mind?

She'd barely caught her breath when he flipped her on her back and crawled up to the pillows, pulling her with him, peeling off his clothes as they went.

There was no more talking, only his urgency to be inside her and her hesitant response. He reached his fingers inside her panties, rubbing her wetness, groaning into her ear. She tried to relax, let it happen, but her mind kept whirling and she kept having to push her anxious thoughts away. She should have had more to drink.

He held himself over her, one hand on either side of her head. “Condom?”

She blinked. “What? No…I’m on the pill…like I always have been…” What the hell kind of question was that? Could he really have forgotten that detail about her? How many other girls had there been for him, were they all running together in his mind?

Paul grimaced. “Right. I’m just really knackered.” He stared down at her. “Mari. Why are you making that face?”

She squeezed her eyes closed. “I don't know what kind of face I'm making.”

“You’re thinking too much right now, let go. Let me make you feel good.”

“I just feel like…” How could she tell him that she felt like she was one of an endless line of girls for him? It would frustrate him no end to hear her say that. He always tried to make her feel special when they were together, and it wasn’t his fault that he’d asked her to come to England last month and she’d said no. He’d sent her a diamond watch for her birthday, for god’s sake. Of course she was special to him. “I don’t know what’s wrong, I guess I thought we would talk first. It feels like we’re strangers again.”

She watched his face crumple with disappointment, then resignation. With a ragged sigh he rolled off of her onto his back. “Sorry. Sometimes I’m just so exhausted all I want to do is get laid and go to sleep.” He rubbed his knuckles into his eyes.

There it was. Another reminder of the way life was for him on the road. Get laid and go to sleep. She could be anyone. She wasn’t so naive that she thought Paul would go three months without having sex. He enjoyed women, loved sex, and he didn’t have to lift a finger to get it. She knew this and thought she had come to terms with it, but something about the way it felt tonight, something was missing. The soft focus eye contact? The song lyrics whispered in her ear? She couldn’t believe she was that cliche. Maybe Angela was right, and she did think her life was supposed to be like a Jane Austen novel.

“Sorry love. I just miss you, s'all. C'mere. Talk to me.” He held out his arms and she rolled over and rested her head on his shoulder. His heart pounded beneath her hand. She didn’t speak, couldn’t think where to start, so Paul began telling her about his day.

“We’ve been traveling for more than twenty-four hours. We finished a gig in Blackpool Sunday night, flew out of London and on the way it was discovered the Captain didn’t have some sort of customs paperwork filled out right, so we had to divert to Winnipeg to get all that sorted. We got off the plane there to give interviews, then stopped in Los Angeles for more interviews, then another flight here and the madness from the airport to the hotel.”

“That sounds grueling.”

“Yeah. I hate this part. Too much traveling and talking about music and not enough playing music.” His strong fingers massaged her neck, she felt herself starting to relax for the first time all day. “You’ve had a hell of a summer too baby, tell me what’s going on in your world.”

She told him about her mother and the details of the surgery while he made soothing noises. "My dad just had to fly back to Key West. They’re turning Papa’s home into a museum and he’s meeting with his brothers and Papa’s third wife Mary. They’re cataloguing everything and overseeing getting the house ready. So my mom is alone right now…”

His fingers stilled on her neck. ”Mm," he said groggily. “How are all the animals?”

“The dogs are great. You wouldn’t believe what Jet did. You know that outdoor spigot where I fill his water bucket? He’s seen me do that a couple of times. One morning last month I overslept and he kicked his water bucket over, and he somehow unhooked his latch, got out of the barn, sailed over the fence and got up to the house, turned on the spigot with his mouth and drank his fill I guess and then wandered away. Only he didn’t turn the water back off and it flooded the yard. My parents? Not happy. Horses can be very motivated when it comes to water.”

Paul didn’t respond, so she continued. “Jet’s been getting out a lot. He trots up to the house and looks in the kitchen window. My mother looked up early one morning and saw this giant horse face staring at her and almost had a heart attack."

She waited for him to laugh but there was only the sound of his steady breathing. She lifted her head slightly. “Paul?” She realized with amazement that he had fallen asleep. She lay there for a few minutes, feeling a little hurt and offended, until she did the math and realized it was around five a.m. in London. It wasn’t the middle of the night, it was the next morning. And they had left London without getting any rest the night before. No wonder all he wanted to do was “get laid and go to sleep.”

After a few more minutes she moved carefully out of his arms, trying not to wake him, and went to the bathroom to wash her face and pull on one of Paul’s T-shirts.

She stood beside the bed for a minute, looking down at him. Paul looked so innocent in his sleep, his dark eyelashes fanned out over his smooth cheeks, his lips slightly parted, one arm slung over his head, palm open, fingers curled.

“Poor tired Beatle,” she whispered. His fingers twitched in response. She turned off the lights and crawled back into bed, kissing him softly on the cheek.

Lying in the dark listening to Paul's steady breathing, she stared at the ceiling and groaned inwardly, wishing she could do this night over. She really had wanted to be with him, to make love the way they had in Scotland and the last time they were together in San Francisco at their little motel. She’d dreamed about it all summer, closing her eyes and wishing it was Paul’s hand when she touched herself in bed at night. She should have been more understanding. She should have had a lot more to drink. It was the middle of the night in England and all he wanted to do was sleep and she showed up expecting to go on a date with him. Tomorrow she would make it up to him.

She lay awake for hours, listening to the screams from the street and Paul softly snoring beside her, remembering the first words Neil had said to her: _Welcome to Beatlemania._

 

 

 

 


	32. If I Fell in Love with You

Marisol woke up the next morning to the sound of a hundred girls being murdered down on the street, followed by a police siren. Paul was clutching her to him as if she were a favorite stuffed toy, the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against her bottom. She dragged her watch in front of her eyes. _Holy hell._ Eight o’clock in the morning and the screams were already starting. Or maybe they had never stopped. She wondered if it ever became unnoticeable, like a drone of traffic.

She gently lifted Paul’s heavy arm, trying to shift away without waking him. He stirred, then rolled onto his back with a groan of protest. She scrambled out of bed and stood looking down at him in the dim light filtering through a crack in the curtains. Her gaze swept over his features. His usually expressive face was tranquil in sleep, the laugh lines around his eyes not visible at all, his long, dark lashes resting against his cheeks. His mouth was soft and full, and in this restful state utterly kissable. It scared her how much she wanted to keep staring at him, memorizing his face, knowing they were, as always, on borrowed time.

Another volley of screams outside the hotel shook her from her reverie. In the bathroom she used the toilet and brushed her teeth, then climbed carefully back into bed and closed her eyes.

 _Were they drifting apart?_ Her heart ached at the thought. Maybe it was inevitable. Paul was a comet streaking across the sky and she wasn't even around to hang on to the tail. For the hundredth time she wondered if she'd made the wrong choice not staying in London. Maybe they would've flashed brightly for a few months and burned out in an explosive end but at least there would've been some resolution instead of endless months of yearning and wondering.

Eventually she noticed a change in his breathing and opened her eyes to find him staring at her. "'Ello, blonde stranger. Where am I? Am I dreaming?" His voice was husky with sleep.

She smiled at the sight of him, his hair tousled and a shadow of stubble covering his jaw. "Morning, stranger."

Paul brushed her hair from her eyes and rested his hand on the back of her head. His touch sent a shiver down her arm. "Look at you. You're so blonde it's like waking up with a buttercup. The bed is at a 45 degree angle and you're in it. Must be San Francisco."

"Good call. Feel any better this morning?"

"Come here and feel for yourself."

She squeezed his shoulder, slid her palm across his chest. "You feel really good to me.”

“I need a glass of water and a pee. Don't go anywhere.”

Minutes later Paul was standing beside the bed, stretching his arms over his head. He looked down and caught her staring at his perfect chest and lean stomach, at the way the trail of dark hair from his navel disappeared into his briefs and the bulge they did nothing to hide.

She licked her lips and flicked her eyes up to his.

“See anything you like?” he asked with a cocky little smile.

She nodded. “I see everything I like.”

He arched a brow. "Not feeling so awkward this morning?"

"I've worked through it. Since you breathed your hot breath on my neck all night with your hand on my boob, I feel close to you again."

"So those were the tits I was dreaming of." He chuckled as he climbed back into bed, lying on his side to face her. "I've always loved that set of yours."

"Spoken by a man who doesn't have to deal with them. They're always in the way."

"In the way of what? My hands? My mouth?"

He reached for her breast and she shoved his hand away, smiling. "Single minded much?"

“Yes, about you I am. I’ve missed you, sweet girl. So many nights in strange beds in strange places, I lie there wishing I could dream you into my arms. There’s something about the way I am when I’m with you. You relax me. I can be exactly who I am with you, no bullshit. I’ve spent the whole summer chasing that feeling that I only have when I’m with you.”

Those were words she wished he would have said last night. The words she’d been waiting all summer to hear.

Kissing him felt less like kissing a stranger this time. It was all coming back to her, his sweet body she knew by heart, the feel of his hands on her, the low voice that sent shivers down her spine, the familiar tobacco and male smell of him, the beautiful lips that fitted with hers just right, the way their bodies slotted together so perfectly. The way he felt inside her, stretching her, filling her, teasing her with his fingers and mouth until she cried his name, alternately begging him to stop and begging him not to stop. The way he curved his face into her neck when it was over for a blissful few minutes of cuddling before he rolled away and reached for a cigarette.

“God, I want to wake up that way every morning,” Paul said afterwards, lighting a cigarette and tossing the lighter onto the nightstand. “Why can’t we?”

He felt around on the nightstand for a few seconds, then gave up and lifted Marisol’s wrist to his face. “Nice watch.”

“I love it. It’s perfect.”

“How was your birthday?” he asked around the cigarette dangling from his lips.

“It was nice. The only way it could have been better is if I could've just gotten laid and gone to sleep.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, looping an arm around her shoulders and blowing a ring of smoke up at the ceiling.

 

“I want you to stay in the room,” Paul instructed when they decided they were too hungry to make love again without food. “There’s a bunch of bloody press people traveling with us and I don’t want them writing about you.”

“I’m a prisoner.”

“You’re a prisoner of love.”

“Of your whims.”

“I’ll be back with breakfast, that should help your mood.”

A few minutes later he carried in a tray with two plates of eggs and sausage, toast and jam, and a teapot and china cups. He set the tray on the table and drew open the drapes. “Look at that California sunshine. Bloody awful being trapped in a hotel in a place where I know what I’m missing."

“What do you mean?” Marisol pulled on a T-shirt of Paul’s and picked up her panties off the floor.

“Thanks to you I know where the good food is, and the record stores, and the beach… all just outside that window, and I can’t get to any of it, and I’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“Are you excited about the show though?”

“Oh, hell yeah. Nice to be able to play some new songs. Hopefully we can be heard.”

"Are you nervous?"

"Always. Always a little nervous in a new place. And the first stop on the tour? Hell yeah. We'll get our sea legs by the second show tonight."

They spent the rest of the morning in bed, rediscovering each other, hours of talking and making love. Paul talked about the hundreds of thousands of fans who had come out to greet them at every stop in Australia, even in the pouring rain. Then he brought his guitar into bed and ad-libbed a new song for her.

"Yeah, there were ladies," he spoke as he strummed, "but I saw most of them through a fence, ya know?"

Marisol used both hands and feet to try to push him off the bed.

"Hey! Mind the guitar, trigger finger! I was only winding you up!"

"Don't play that song again, McCartney."

He strummed a few chords. "How's about this one?" He began singing along as he picked out a melody.

_"Downside: I'm never home for you,_   
_Upside: I realize how much I need you,_   
_It's been awhile since I kissed you goodbye_   
_In between then and now there's many sleepless nights_   
_It's been a long time since we had more to go on than hanging on a phone line..."_

He strummed a chord and looked at her. "Here's what I'm tryin ta say."

_"I've been gone too long, I'm sorry,_   
_I've been gone too long, can I still come home?"_

He stopped playing and stared out the window for a moment before leaping off the bed, leaning the guitar carefully against the dresser and dragging a notebook out of his beat up brown briefcase that apparently still accompanied him around the world.

She propped herself up on the pillows and watched him at the table with a smile on her lips. Who knew what went on in that brain of his? He'd sit there, chewing the end of the pencil, then scribbling away in that battered school notebook, and twenty minutes later, as if by magic, the world would have another hit song to sing along to, fall in love to, pump their fists in the air to. And all the while he looked so adorable doing it that she had to restrain herself from crawling across the covers and pulling him back into bed, even though they'd already had each other twice that morning.

"Come back to bed." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Just a tick, love. I'm almost--" He glanced up. She was leaning against the headboard, the sheet bunched around her waist. His gaze fell to her breasts. He licked his lips and stood. "Sod it. It can wait." The pencil rolled off the table as he crawled up the bed, never taking his eyes from hers.

  
The Beatles had a three o’clock press conference and sound check at the Cow Palace. They came back to the hotel for a couple of hours and a quick dinner, then dressed for the show in their crisp new navy blue suits with velvet collars and snug fitting trousers. A half-dozen of these suits had been ordered for each Beatle, with extra trousers, since they often didn’t come back from the cleaners. Stealing a pair of trousers that had been worn by a Beatle was an irresistible temptation all over the world, it seemed. Flanked by wailing motorcycle escorts, they slipped through seas of hysterical fans back to the Cow Palace for two sold out shows.

Marisol stayed in the hotel, since Neil and Paul and everyone else made it clear that no one had time to worry about her safety. After calling home to check on her mom, she sat by the television, clicking back and forth between the three channels, waiting for local news about the Beatles.

The eleven o'clock news reported their second Cow Palace performance lasted just 29 minutes, and was stopped twice due to the numbers of jelly beans being thrown at the Beatles. Nineteen girls required first aid during the concert and one boy dislocated his shoulder. During the combined two shows, fifty fans were hurt and two were arrested. Many dozens more were prevented from invading the stage.

  
It was almost midnight and Marisol was feeling stir crazy by the time she heard voices from the lounge area. A few seconds later, Neil was at the door. "The lads can't make it back. Too dodgy. I need you to pack Paul's bag while we get the others. They've gone straight to the airport in an ambulance."

"Why an ambulance?"

"To sneak them out. The limousine was besieged by fans and the roof caved in."

"Jesus." Marisol bent down to grab a pair of Paul's socks. She rolled them up and tossed them into his open suitcase.

"Oh, here." Neil patted his breast pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

It was a page torn out of Paul's school notebook, a full page in his careful handwriting. She sat on the edge of the bed to read.

  
_I'm trying to understand_   
_I'm a good man_   
_When I'm standing still on two legs_   
_I'm a good man_   
_I think that's why you stick around me now_   
_But we both know_   
_That in a week or so_   
_I'll call you up from someplace_   
_All self-righteous and arrogant and then_   
_I'll ask you how you're doing_   
_And be so caught up in my own life and_   
_I will sense the weakness in you_   
_'Cause you've been staying in the same house and the same room_   
_Looking around at all my stuff_   
_It's speaking for me, it's saying,_   
_'You don't know where he is'_   
_And you'll hang up the phone and lie in the bed_   
_And I'll hang up the phone and I'll go out instead_   
_And I'll be thinking of you but you won't know_   
_'Cause your brain won't let you have it_   
_And all your friends at home they tell you_   
_That I'm straying and I'm straying_   
_And you're just a stupid lunatic for staying_   
_But I'm in the middle of nowhere_   
_Fifty miles to nothing behind me_   
_Fifty miles to something in front of me_   
_Homesick and carsick and music sick and_   
_Dreaming about a home life_   
_Dreaming about my whole life and_   
_Dreaming about making you my wife_   
_I'll come back for a home life I promise someday soon..._

She read it through three times before folding it carefully and tucking it inside her bag. A tear slid down her cheek as she stood, hands shaking, to finish packing Paul's things.

*************************

Paul called after midnight the next day from his hotel in Las Vegas. One of the English reporters traveling with them had written a few blurbs about them in a British paper including this gem: "Paul McCartney left his tart in San Francisco." Paul was livid. He swore he wasn't speaking to the "bloody bastard" for the rest of the tour. "Eppy is allowing the swine to travel with us at our expense so they can report on the tour, not our bloody private lives."

"How is Las Vegas?" Marisol asked, trying to change the subject.

"Oh, it's been fab. We couldn't leave our rooms, but the hotel brought up slot machines. The show was great. I think the first four rows were filled up by Pat Boone and his daughters. He seems to have hundreds of daughters. And Liberace visited us backstage."

"That sounds amazing." She was actually envious of Pat Boone's daughters right now. They got to go to a Beatles show.

"We need to reconnect. We need to be together for more than one bloody night and half of a day."

 _So he felt it too._ "I know."

"You will come to L.A.? We have three or four days there, it's one of the only breaks in the tour."

"The Hollywood Bowl? I wouldn't miss it for the world," Marisol promised.

 

The next morning, Marisol was rolling a couple of sundresses to add to her suitcase when she looked up to see her mother hovering in the doorway like a specter in her pale blue dressing gown.

"Mom? You okay?"

"Oh, dear," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't expect you'd be leaving again so soon."

"I'm going to L.A., Mom. Remember? We talked about it? Paul is there four days and then he's going across the country."

"Four days?" Her mother visibly blanched. "I thought you'd stay close to home for awhile, especially after...the troubles." _The troubles._ As if her mother's breasts were Northern Ireland.

"Do you need me to stay, Mother?"

“Your father's run off to Florida again, and Margo stayed all the past week but Lucy has come down with strep, and your brother is no help." She brought a hand to her forehead. "I suppose I could have one of the help drive me in to the city tomorrow."

"Why do you need to go in to the city?"

"For my post op doctor visit." She swayed slightly. "I'm going back to bed. I'm a bit faint. Maybe Bianca can pick up more of my pain meds when it's her day to clean."

"Mom, have you eaten anything?"

"I couldn't possibly cook right now." She waved a hand wearily in Marisol's direction. "Enjoy your holiday, I'll manage somehow."

Marisol slumped onto the bed. Her mother was a few days out of surgery and she was the only family member here. What sort of daughter was she, so wrapped up in the idea of seeing Paul again that she'd barely given thought to her mother's cancer? She couldn't leave her. Well, she could, technically, but her mother would make her feel guilty for years. Her father and those damn fish. She couldn't blame him. He was useless when it came to any of them being sick. This was a daughter's domain. If she were in her mother's shoes, she couldn't imagine being left alone to recuperate from having a breast removed. And there were her horses and dogs to consider. Her mother couldn't cope with caring for them. There was no way she could leave right now.

She stood and pulled her suitcase onto the floor, startling Beau, her boxer chow mix, out of a nap. He groaned and laid his head back down. She dragged her suitcase into her closet and shut the door.

Plopping onto the bed again, she picked up the tour schedule Paul had given her. Four days in Los Angeles and barely a chance to breathe after that.

Hot tears of frustration trickled down her cheeks. She'd waited all summer for less than twenty-four hours with Paul. With a heavy heart, she flipped through her address book, looking for Brian's secretary's London number. More transatlantic phone calls to try and get a message to Paul in L.A. that she wasn't coming.

*********************

  
Three nights later she answered the phone to hear a familiar Scouse voice. “Why 'ello stranger. So you're alive after all.”

“Paul! Hi, did you get my message?”

“Loud and clear.”

“My mother is sick, I couldn't leave. I didn't know how to reach you. I told Brian's secretary to ask you to call me.

“You missed seeing me play the Hollywood Bowl.”

“I know...It's too soon after her surgery and she's depending on me. My dad should be back next week and I could catch up with you somewhere?”

She picked up the tour schedule that she'd practically memorized. "How about Florida? You have three days in Florida.”

Silence.

“Please don't be upset with me.”

“I'm not upset with you,” came his tired voice. “It just seems so impossible sometimes. Like I'm beating my head against a wall.”

Her heart fell. He'd never spoken to her this way before. “I know. I'm discouraged too.”

She heard other voices in the background over the phone line and then a muffled sound like Paul was covering up the mouthpiece.

“You still there?” he asked after a few seconds. His voice sounded heavier somehow.

“Yes, where are you?”

“I'm in bed, with the sheets pulled over my head. You should come. This bed is huge. We could make a fort.”

“I'm so sorry.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I really wanted to spend time with you.”

She heard him sigh. “I know baby. Maybe next time. I hope your Mom feels better soon. I'll call you from...somewhere."

He rang off, and Marisol cradled the phone to her chest for a long minute. Then she checked on her mother, let the dogs inside and cried herself to sleep.

 

 

The Beatles on the roof of the Sahara Hotel, Las Vegas, August 20, 1964

 

*Home Life ad-lib courtesy of John Mayer, Wheatland, CA, August 2004


	33. All Together Now

Marisol’s flight arrived on time in Key West but her luggage was nowhere to be found. She waited by the baggage carousel for twenty minutes before finding an airline agent and filling out lost luggage forms, giving her grandfather’s Key West address. With that accomplished, she went out on the tarmac to wait for Paul’s chartered plane to land.

Paul had called from Canada earlier that morning. Hurricane Dora was headed up the East Coast, straight for their intended destination of Jacksonville. Their pilot was suggesting Key West as an alternate place to hunker down for the three days between concerts.

“That’s perfect, Paul!” Marisol couldn’t believe their luck. “We can stay at my Papa’s place. All four of you, and Neil and Mal! And Brian if he wants to.”

“Eppy never stays with us any more. Not since the time in New York when he was photographed with a male escort and blackmailed and Capitol Records had to bail him out.”

“All righty then. That was so much more information than I needed to know about Brian.”

Brian himself called her thirty minutes later to get more information so that he could arrange for a twenty-four hour guard by the front gate of the Hemingway home in Key West. Hopefully it would take the media and fans some time to figure out where the Beatles were hiding out until their show in Jacksonville.

As it was, no fans were waiting when their plane touched down in Key West. Marisol watched the Beatles and their entourage descending the air stairs and rushing into two waiting limousines. A bus was waiting nearby for the support bands and the rest of their entourage who were headed to a motel on the beach.

Over the noise of the idling engines, Marisol yelled for Paul, then Neil. Paul finally spotted her just before he was shoved into a limousine. He shouted at Neil and pointed to where Marisol was standing behind a fence next to a police officer.

Neil pulled her across the tarmac to the limousine behind Paul’s. “Where are your bags?” he shouted.

“Your guess is as good as mine!”

Neil opened the door to the second limousine for Marisol and ran ahead to climb in next to the Beatles’ driver.

“'Ello, pretty bird.” Derek Taylor, the Beatles’ new publicist, was sitting across from her and grinning in a slightly inebriated way.

“Hello.” Marisol smiled back at him. "Good flight?"

"Bumpy as shite."

Both limousines came to a sudden stop. Marisol's door was thrown open, and Paul was outside. He pulled her to her feet. “You’re coming with me, Beauty.”

When they were in his limousine, Paul pulled her onto his lap. "Nice to see you," he said to her cleavage. "It's been a day. Mind if I bury my face in you?"

"No sex in the limo, you animals,” John Lennon growled.

"Where to, dear?" Neil called from the front seat.

Marisol gave him directions and relaxed in Paul's arms. She was being driven to her Papa’s house in a luxury limousine on Paul’s lap, surrounded by tired but still witty Beatles. There were worse ways to end a grueling day of travel.

While Mal and Neil unloaded luggage, Marisol ran inside the mansion to make sure the guest rooms were ready and to chat with the faithful caretakers, Mr. and Mrs. Sosa. Outside again, a trail of discarded clothing led her towards the sounds of splashing and laughter. All four Beatles had stripped down to their briefs and were enjoying the enormous swimming pool. Marisol flipped on the pool lights with a big grin on her face.

Papa had installed underwater bulbs for night swimming, and each bulb was so bright the pool seemed like it must be visible from Mars.

A loud cheer went up. With the lights on it looked like the Beatles were swimming around in a sort of green fire.

Marisol made her way past the hedge of gardenias blooming at the water’s edge and laughed at the scene. The Beatles looked like luminous frogs.

Paul was floating on his back, grinning up at her. “Get in here, right now, Mari. This is livin’.”

“I don’t have a suit. Everything was in my checked luggage.”

“This isn’t a cozzie sort of pool, Mari.”

She hesitated only a moment before stepping out of her sandals, stripping down to her bra and panties and diving into the warm water. Paul swam over, shielding her from everyone else’s eyes.

“Hello, Beauty. I’ve been waiting forever for you.”

Sweet Mrs. Sosa soon appeared with an armload of towels. She returned moments later with a tray of glasses, Pepsi bottles, and two bottles of Scotch, which garnered whistles and shouts of approval from all four Beatles.

When they tired of swimming, they wrapped themselves in towels and collected their clothes. Marisol led the way into the house. She ducked into a bathroom to change out of her wet undergarments and into her sundress. When she came out, Paul was dressed in a pair of oh-so-tight grey jeans and no shirt. All she wanted to do was stare at him, but six pairs of eyes were staring back at her, waiting for her to play hostess. So she led them on a tour of the house, assigning bedrooms and pointing out the bathrooms and sitting room and finally the kitchen.

Marisol signaled to Paul to stay behind as the others wandered off to explore the wine cellar below the kitchen. Grabbing a set of keys from a drawer, she nodded towards the back door. “I want to show you something.” In the moonlight they followed a short grassy path and climbed a steep flight of iron stairs that led to her grandfather’s writing studio.

Paul wandered around, touching her grandfather’s hunting trophies, the Spanish antiques, the set of ancient swords hanging over one of many bookcases. He stood in front of Joan Miro’s painting, _The Farm_ , depicting a Spanish farmhouse and farmyard.

“That’s my grandmother’s painting, by the way,” Marisol said, frowning as she stood beside Paul, the two of them staring up at it. “He bought it for her as a birthday present. Then he borrowed it after the divorce and never returned it.”

Paul gave a little smile and moved on, stopping in front of the black Royal typewriter sitting on a small Indian rug on a high chest. He tested one of the keys. “This is where he wrote all those books?”

She nodded. “Some of them. After the two plane crashes his back was never the same. It hurt him to sit for long periods, so he had to stand up to work. I remember coming up here and seeing him hunched over it, pecking away. I’d watch him until that witch he married would chase me away, telling me to be a good girl and go out and play.”

Paul slipped his hand under her hair, his fingers resting against her neck. She leaned into him, loving the solid feel of him.

“He was in a lot of pain?”

Marisol looked around the room, a heavy sigh escaping. “Yeah. His back, and his stomach was never the same after getting dysentery in Africa, and he was depressed. Always depressed. And then he had a medical procedure done that my father believes made him unable to write any more. And that was it for him. No reason to stay around."

"Genius is sorrow's child,” Paul said quietly.

He pulled a sheet of paper from a stack on top of the dresser and rolled it into the typewriter. He pecked at the keys for a few minutes, then rolled the paper out, holding it in front of him. Marisol read over his shoulder.

_Mary Soul by J.P. McCartney_

_Once upon a time there was a lonely boy in love with a beautiful girl. He captured her heart and lassoed her horses and spirited her away to his castle in England where they LOVED happily ever after._

_The End_

“How did they get across the big pond?” Marisol asked.

“She flew them across. Obviously.”

She nodded. “Obviously. This has bestseller written All. Over. It.”

She folded the page and slid it inside a copy of _For Whom the Bell Tolls_ and placed it on the bookshelf.

  
Back in the kitchen, she left the keys in the drawer without turning on the lights. Moonlight slid through the floor to ceiling windows, casting the room in a silvery glow. She heard footsteps, and Paul slid his arms around her from behind and pulled her to his chest.

Her skin tingled under his touch. He gathered her hair and held it aside, his touch sending a shiver down her arms. He gently pulled the strap of her sundress over her shoulder and brushed his lips over the curve of her neck. Marisol tilted her head to the side, giving him room to kiss his way to her ear. She bit her lip as his breath tickled her ear. There was nothing she wanted more than to be close to him. All the uncertainty, all the waiting, it all faded away when she was in his arms again, his soft lips on her heated skin.

She turned and placed her hands on him, feeling the solid muscle under his bare chest. She pressed her body against his and smiled when she felt his muscles tense.

His hands trailed down her hips and cupped her ass, and in a swift movement he lifted her onto the counter.

Marisol wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him closer, her hands framing his face, bringing his mouth to hers. His tongue parted her lips and she groaned into his mouth. He slid his hands up her legs, his fingers pausing just underneath the hem of her dress.

Then he pulled away, breaking the kiss. “We need to talk.”

Marisol panted, blinking at him. “We do?”

“Umm hmm. I’ve been thinking a lot about us lately.”

The warmth of his hands sliding between her thighs sent quivers through her. She tried to concentrate on what he thought was so important to talk about right this minute.

“We can’t go on like this, only seeing each other every few months. It’s madness. I care for you a lot, and I think you feel the same. Do you?”

“Yes, of course…” She leaned in and nibbled at his ear. It was maddening to be this close to him after a month of waiting. He smelled so damn good. Like pool water and salt and Paul.

“I’m sick of living alone in that shitty flat. George and Pattie are getting a place together and Ringo is with Mo..” He leaned back, searching her gaze. “I need to know if you’re ready to take the next step.”

“The next…step?”

“I want you to move in with me.”

“In London.”

“Obviously.”

She sighed, her thoughts spinning. Were they really going to have this conversation right now, when they could be rolling around in bed? “Um…”

He heaved a breath. “I don’t understand why you’re hesitating. We’re happy when we’re together. We don’t even bicker. We’re compatible, we fuck like rabbits, what is it you’re so worried about?”

Marisol let her head fall against his shoulder. “I just…I don’t want you to support me. If we waited until I turn twenty-one, then I would have an inheritance and I—“

His body tensed, his voice rising. “There is no bloody way I can go another two years like this.”

“Ssh. I know.” She pressed her palms against his skin, soothing him. “I’ll talk to my parents when I get home.”

“Promise?” Paul asked, tilting his head so their eyes met.

“Promise.”

He moved in, nibbling on her lower lip, his body relaxing under her hands.

“Right then. My bedroom or yours?”

“Yours. The Sosas turn in early so…”

“I’ll leave a light on for you.”

In her bedroom Marisol took a quick shower and dressed in her only sundress. There was a new toothbrush and toothpaste in the bathroom and a half empty bottle of shampoo. First thing tomorrow she’d go to one of the little boutiques in town and buy a couple of sundresses and a bathing suit and definitely some underwear and maybe some mascara. What else was she forgetting? It hit her then. She emptied her purse on the bed, frantically pawing through it, shocked to realize her birth control pills were in her missing suitcase, which was probably spinning around on a luggage carousel in Des Moines.

Paul opened his bedroom door with wet hair and a towel in his hand. When he saw Marisol, his face split in a wide grin. He looked past her, checking the hallway in both directions, and pulled her into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

He held a finger to his lips. When he kissed her, he was smiling so hard their teeth clashed.

“Paul,” she said, pulling away. “My birth control pills are in my lost luggage.”

She watched his smile falter as he processed this information, and then it was back, brighter than ever. “You won’t get pregnant from missing a couple days of pills. Besides, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it? We could get married, and then you’d have to move to England, and I’d have you and a whole farm yard full of animals.”

“And a baby,” Marisol added.

“And a baby.”

“We need to use a condom.”

“Whatever you want, love.” He lowered his head and captured her mouth with his.

Her arms wrapped around him, feeling the soft dampness of his skin, running over the hard edges of his back, shoulder blades, his strong neck. His hair was still wet from the shower and she spread her fingers through it. The sensation that flooded through her was how right this felt. Their lips, the contours of their hands, the way his knees fitted between hers when they fell onto the bed. Whichever way they stood or lay or rolled, it just felt right.

**********************

When she heard Mrs. Sosa stirring around in the kitchen the next morning, Marisol was back in her own bedroom. She threw on the house coat she’d borrowed from the housekeeper, belted it around her waist, and went to help with breakfast. It would take a lot of eggs and sausage and potatoes to fill these six northern lads. Mrs. Sosa had coffee brewing and was already at work peeling potatoes.

When everything was ready, the sound of Scouse accents and male laughter led Marisol to the pool. She smelled an unmistakable fragrant aroma from yards away. There they were, all four Beatles with Mal and Neil on the far side of the pool, sitting with their feet in the water and passing a blunt back and forth. Six sets of eyes looked up at her.

Marisol eyed them back with her hands on her hips. “Let me get this straight. The lot of you smoke marijuana for breakfast now?”

Paul giggled. “Technically not for breakfast, Mari, because we still eat breakfast. It’s more like _before_ breakfast.”

“I’m fookin’ starving, me,” George said. “What have you got to eat?”

Marisol shot a glance through the huge banyan tree between the pool and the high brick walls, where a police officer was posted to guard against intrusion by fans. Hopefully the breeze was blowing the scent of pot away from the front gates.

“So when did you start smoking the weed?” she asked Paul when he’d helped himself to a second plate full of eggs and sausage and Mrs. Sosa’s homemade biscuits and gravy.

“In New York. It’s so relaxing. Have you tried it?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I tried it. I’m in college, aren’t I?”

“What did you think?” Paul reached for two more biscuits.

“I tried it one night with Donna and we ate everything in her refrigerator. Then we ate everything in her cupboards. I figured I should stop while I could still fit in my clothes.”

Paul gestured to her with a biscuit. “Looks like you have some room to spare.”

Marisol cinched the belt of Mrs. Sosa’s house dress. “I have to find something to wear today.”

  
There were shopping trips into town with Neil and short bicycle rides to the lighthouse, six blocks away. They discovered if they went out one at a time with Neil or Mal, no one paid much attention to them at all. It was when the four of them were out together they drew crowds. So far, no one seemed to expect to find the biggest band in the world hiding out in the Hemingway home in Key West.

Back in her room, Marisol changed into her new yellow bikini and a white and yellow polka dot cover up. She spent thirty minutes on the phone with a series of Pan Am agents, the last of whom assured her they were hot on the trail of her missing suitcase.

The boys were all lounging by the pool. George strummed a guitar, and Ringo accompanied him by tapping on the arms of his lounge chair.

John looked up from his book. “‘I've been expecting you, Mr. Bond,’ said James Bond’s mother after giving birth.”

Marisol smiled. “How’s the book?”

“Quite good. We’ve slogged our way through all the Bond books this tour. That means it’s time to go home.”

"My brain is thinking so much faster than I am right now," Paul said with bloodshot eyes and a dazed expression. "I need to write everything down. But I keep forgetting to write it down.”

Marisol drew her brows together, examining him like he was one of her grandfather’s sea specimens in a glass jar. “Are you sure about this…” She waved her hand in front of her face so she could breathe, “…this smoking every day?”

“Oh, yeah. I have a lot less problems with weed than when I get hammered with whisky.”

“Well…maybe you could try not doing either one?”

John took the blunt from Paul and sucked in the smoke, holding it in a moment before blowing it out. “I claim the Hemingway defense, we all do.”

“I can’t wait to hear this one.”

“As an artist and a writer, I'm a very sensitive fellow. But I am also a man, and real men don't give in to their sensitivities and cry like a bloody girl. Ergo I drink, and I smoke hash. How else can I face the existential horror of it all and still work?”

“That’s the Hemingway defense?”

John nodded solemnly.

“It’s brilliant.” Marisol scooped her hair up with one hand, fanning her neck with the other. In her lost suitcase was a pony tail holder. The humidity down here had to be 100% right now.

“Mari, baby, you need to relax,” Paul said, reaching for her hand. “Come here and smoke with me.”

Paul was right about that. She did need to relax. She was 3,000 miles from home, no clothes, no birth control pills, no school books, no makeup, no...

“Give me that.” Marisol held the smoke in her lungs as long as she could before she dissolved in a fit of coughing. “I don’t want to cry like a bloody girl either.”

She swept a half dozen empty Fritos packets off the foot of Paul’s lounge chair and sat down between his legs.

“I think of it like an Indian peace pipe,” Paul explained. “A few tokes and I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I still want to hurt the Pan Am employee who lost my luggage.”

“Have another go,” Paul advised.

Not being a smoker, Marisol didn’t really enjoy the whole idea of inhaling. But watching the others get giggly together made her want to join in. Paul seemed more relaxed this afternoon than she’d ever seen him. When she thought about how many people wanted something from him, and the ridiculous expectations he had for himself and the band, and how he was constantly on exhibition and being judged by the press and the entire country and now the world, she understood why they all needed to escape for awhile.

“Do you feel anything?” Paul asked.

“I’m not sure.” She giggled. “I feel relaxed though.”

“Good girl,” Paul said, and Marisol thought that was hilarious. They laughed together. “I don’t want to hurt anyone either,” she admitted, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Have you ever noticed everything is funny as hell when it's not happening to you?” Ringo said, smiling through a haze of smoke.

“Makes me see things more clearly,” Paul said, examining the blunt in his fingers. “I’m more creative now. I just can’t remember to write shit down.”

“We’re all trying to stop drinking so bleeding much,” George said. “Tisn't healthy.”

If Marisol thought the Beatles were funny before, when they were high they were a four part harmony comedy act. They finished each other’s sentences and got each other’s humor so thoroughly. She felt like she was at a tennis match, her eyes darting back and forth, trying to follow their conversation.

“I got Maureen lingerie for her birthday. 80 quid,” Ringo said.

“80 quid? I’d have better luck in the bedroom if I just handed Cyn 80 quid,” John said.

“Seems pretty effective,” George said. “It would work on me. I go to the bedroom and you give me 80 quid, I’d do a lot of things I wouldn’t normally do.”

Paul giggled. “You peel off eight bills…how you feeling? Erm…open minded, I’d say.”

“Aye, I got Cyn lingerie once,” John said. “I came home, she was wearing it, but she’d gotten cold so she was wearing a flannel robe over it.”

Ringo groaned. “There’s nothing that cancels out a sexy nightie faster than having to peel off a layer of your grandmother to get to it.”

“Pattie and I were having sex one night and she says ‘make love to me!’ and I’m like…hmm? Do you mean, after we finish whatever it is we’re doing right now?” George said.

John laughed. “Not now, we’re doing something else. And, hate to break it to ya, but it’s almost over, so…we don’t have a lot of time to switch into new stuff.”

“Aye, and makin’ love sounds like you need to put on a suit and wear deodorant,” Ringo added.

“She said ‘make love to me.’ I just left it in and stared at her real hard,” George said. “Is that it? I dunno, I’m just taking a shot in the dark.”

“Pun intended,” Paul said.

“I don’t know what it means to ‘make love,’ either,” John said. “Pretty sure it means you don’t try to put your finger in her ass.”

“Oh my god, stop!” Marisol dropped her head into her hands, shaking with laughter. They were hilarious, but it was incredibly awkward hearing all of them talk about having sex with their significant others when she was the only female here. She wondered how much more Paul would be saying if she weren’t sitting right here beside him.

Paul continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “That’s not making love. That’s making boundaries…but it’s still important. If you’re gonna be in a successful relationship, you have to know what sort of business she runs back there.” Paul ticked off the possibilities on his fingers. “All are welcome? None are welcome? You can play on the porch but you can’t come in?”

John nodded. “That’s a popular one. Some girls treat it like a restaurant that lets you smoke on the patio. Can we smoke inside? NO, YOU MAY NOT!”

Paul laughed. “How ‘bout the patio? Aye, that’s open all night long.”

Marisol managed to stop laughing long enough to ask, “Is this gender specific? How about your patio?”

“Not my patio!” John said, in an uptight Southern American sort of voice. “I’m a Christian!”

“I allow it,” George said. “I used to not allow it. I used to be against it. I used to not allow smoking on the patio. Until one day a girl smoked on my patio.”

“That changed everything, dint it?” Paul asked.

“She stuck her hand back there before I knew what was going on,” George said. “I was like, ‘hey, what are you…ahhhhh…all right…well I guess I’m into that now…” He waited until everyone had stopped laughing. “That day changed my life. And made my showers five minutes longer.”

Ringo nodded in understanding. “When you might have company, you clean it like you’re sellin’ it.”

Marisol laughed so hard at them her sides were aching. Sitting beside the pool with them was like a thirty minute abdominal workout. Swimming not required.

 

When they weren’t smoking weed or lounging by the pool pouring bags of Fritos into their mouths, they played cards and Monopoly and sang along with George, who constantly had a guitar in his hands.

In the late afternoon while the others napped, Paul and Marisol cuddled on the love seat in the sitting room under a ceiling fan and watched Fidel Castro ranting on the black and white television. They held hands and talked about the summer and where they wanted to go together when the tour ended.

Later that night they had dinner as a group at Sloppy Joe’s. George invited the pretty blonde singer Jackie DeShannon to join them.

Marisol had placed a call to the proprietor, who ushered them to a back room where he used to seat her grandfather. A round of mojitos appeared in seconds, followed by a plate of bacon wrapped smoked scallops.

Ringo admired the enormous sailfish adorning the wall beside their table. “My Papa caught it,” Marisol said proudly. “119 pounds.”

Paul whistled. “That’s a lot of stones.”

  
The Beatles told war stories, moaning about lousy sound systems and crappy merchandise, loud hotel rooms and scary airplane flights.

They shared highlights of their world tour and especially the nutty, ecstatic fans. Their flight to Hong Kong had to make several fueling stops. Paul tried to buy a few souvenirs at the airport in Karachi, Pakistan, but even at 2 a.m. shrieking fans appeared out of nowhere and he was forced back on the plane. "Who'd have imagined we'd be famous in Karachi?" he mused.

Paul said it was cold when they landed in Sydney in the pouring rain, but there were still thousands of fans there to greet them. The Beatles were paraded around in an open topped milk truck and by the time they reached the hotel they were soaked to the skin.

"This soaking wet woman ran up to the back of the truck yelling, 'Catch him, Paul!' and heaved a six-year-old mentally handicapped child at me. I was drenched and not too steady in the truck and I barely caught the lad and he was terrified. The woman yelled, 'May God bless you!' I shouted, 'He's lovely! Great! You take him now!"

Paul scratched his jaw, an amazed smile on his face at the memory. "The woman ran after the truck until the driver saw her and slowed. She took her child, kissed him, and started weeping. 'He's better! Oh, he's better!'"

At least 200,000 fans lined the streets to greet them in Adelaide, Australia. Ringo recalled at one stop a crippled man threw his crutches away and shouted, "I can walk! I can walk!" And then he just fell over. "That's going to be stuck in my head for always," Ringo said.

The jelly baby throwing habit was out of control in Australia. "We're really fed up," George complained.

"I kept stopping the show and asking the crowds to stop chucking the damn things, but they just screamed and threw even more," Paul said.

"It's ridiculous," John said. "They even throw gift wrapped packages. We haven't a chance to get out of the way."

"It's all right for you lot," Ringo said. "You can jump aside and dodge them, but I'm stuck at the drums and can't move, and they all seem to hit me."

John told a story about a twenty-year-old Liverpool lad who climbed the drainpipes in total darkness outside their Sydney hotel to the eighth floor and tapped on his window to say hello. "I knew before he opened his mouth where he was from because I knew nobody else would be climbing up eight floors. I gave him a drink because he deserved one and took him round to see the others.”

The story of the Liverpool lad somehow reminded Paul how angry he was about the deejay in L.A. who had given out all of their Liverpool home addresses on the air. He was so angry he was reverting to his Scouse accent.  
“What’s he gone and done that for? Now our parents have thousands of letters and parcels that we’re never gonna see, like, we don’t even live there no more. What ‘ave our parents done? Nothin’, and they have hundreds of strangers showin’ oop.”

“Have you ever gotten mobbed, in a scary situation?” Marisol asked, trying to take his mind off the deejay.

Ringo talked about the time on New York when a policeman mistook him for a fan and prevented him from dashing inside the hotel with the others. His shirt was ripped and his St. Christopher medal torn from his neck before the officer realized his mistake and pushed Ringo inside to safety.

Paul swirled the ice in his mojito, looking thoughtful. “Once on the European tour, we tried to go to a club. I ended up surrounded by 200 drunk Scandinavian girls, it was hell.”

Marisol patted his knee. “You poor, poor thing.”

They enjoyed another round of drinks and a seafood dinner before a young couple appeared at their table asking for autographs.

“Appreciate you not telling anyone you spotted us here for another day or so,” Paul said, giving them a wink as he returned the paper and pen.

“Right,” John said. “I’d say it’s a matter of hours before our fans catch up with us. Legions of them are likely barreling down the Overseas Highway at this very moment.”

“Better make the best of it then,” Paul said, pulling Marisol onto the dance floor. Ringo and Jackie also ventured onto the floor. They danced to a rollicking live bluegrass band for three songs before they felt the excited press of the crowd closing in. Mal stepped up and cleared a path to the door.

“Neil! Settle the bill, would you?” Paul called over his shoulder as Mal pulled them out the door.

******************

On Thursday they hired a 38-foot fishing yacht and took turns steering it out into the gulf. Paul pointed at the purplish black belt of water only a few hundred yards off shore. “Why is it purple?”

“It’s the Gulf Stream,” Marisol told him. “The tide has pushed it in close. The plankton makes it look purple.”

After a leisurely cruise, they anchored the boat in a cove and swam in the bath-like waters while Mal tended the boat. The beach was as soft and white as pancake mix. John surprised them all by turning cartwheels in the sand. They climbed an old watchtower and took pictures of each other clowning around.

Back on board, they poured Castilian wine they’d poached from the cellar into tumblers filled with chopped ice. Mrs. Sosa had sent them off with a shrimp and cucumber salad and custard pudding. They toasted each other while they sang along with early Elvis, whose voice was scratching from the portable phonograph propped on a shelf in the cockpit next to the wheel.

After lunch they napped on the boat, drifting into dreams, stretched out on the long cushions lining the sides of the yacht.

On the way back to the island they saw the sea turn black with porpoises. Marisol tried to take pictures with the Kodak, then put the camera down and watched worriedly when Paul and John shed their T-shirts and leaped into the water in hopes the wild creatures would swim up to them. Marisol held her breath until they were both safely back in the boat.

Mal steered them into the early evening sun, while they sat in the back of the boat protected by the long shade of the cockpit.

Fans had started to gather at the gate, although no one could imagine how they pinpointed where the Beatles were staying. A second police officer was now stationed outside. The Beatles signed autographs for a dozen fans on the other side of the high walls. Paul pressed a finger to his lips. “Keep it down, loves. This is a quiet neighborhood and we don’t want to go getting ourselves evicted, now do we?” The girls squealed at him in response as he dodged away through the palm trees to the house.

After a light dinner and more of Papa’s Spanish wine, Paul and Marisol cuddled in a hammock strung between two palm trees. Paul lay with his eyes closed, his head tilted back and to the side like a bird to catch the last of the afternoon sun. Marisol coiled one leg around him, listening to the rhythm of his breathing. The air was fragrant with gardenia blossoms, and the air was now cooled by a brisk breeze, the result of Hurricane Dora whirling away up the East Coast.

It had been an idyllic day, which made it even harder to come to terms with the fact that tomorrow Paul would be flying north to continue the tour, and Marisol would be on her way to California to have the discussion she’d promised Paul she would have with her parents. No way in hell was that going to end well, Marisol thought, but she quickly shoved that negative line of thinking away. They still had tonight, and the simple bliss of falling asleep in each other’s arms under a blanket of stars.

 


	34. I Should Have Known Better

A thunderstorm rumbled over Key West during the night. High winds overturned pool chairs and garbage cans and roared through the palm branches. Marisol lay awake in bed for much of the night listening to the storm, her thoughts whirling like the wind lashing against her shuttered window.

Paul and the rest of the band were scheduled to fly out at noon, and the imminent goodbye filled her with the usual dread. Marisol’s flight left three hours later. Maybe during the five hour flight she would figure out how to approach her parents about moving to England. She still couldn’t grasp the idea that it might actually happen, that Paul had asked her to move in with him, that he was expecting her to say yes. It didn’t seem real.

By morning the rain had turned into a fine mist. Mr. Sosa wandered the grounds, checking for storm damage. Breakfast was quiet. The lads all seemed a bit distracted, probably thinking ahead, the way they always did, to their show that night and the final week of nonstop touring before they flew home to England.

 

Marisol had just finished helping Mrs. Sosa with the breakfast dishes when the phone rang. “It’s for you, mi alma,” Mrs. Sosa said, handing Marisol the phone. “Someone named Donna.”

“Donna? Is my Mom okay?”

“Yeah, everyone’s fine…um…are you alone?” Donna’s voice sounded quiet yet somehow intense.

“Kind of…I can talk. What’s going on?” Marisol couldn't imagine why Donna would call her here. She would've had to have gotten the number from Marisol’s parents.

“Listen, I hate being the one to tell you this, but you’re going to find out anyway because it’s in _Photoplay_ …and I didn’t want you to be blindsided…”

“What? Okay, Sarah Bernhardt. I’m sure it’s not as dramatic as all that. Has my name been linked with Paul in some magazine?”

There was an uncomfortable pause. “Donna?”

“Mari, I stayed with my dad last weekend in Bel Air for my stepmom’s birthday, and the caterer was one of the ones who took care of the Beatles while they were here last month, and she talked…a lot.”

“Okay…so?”

“She said Paul had a girl with him while he was here. An actress named Peggy Lipton. Apparently this girl really went after him, pulled all sorts of strings to get to him…I wasn’t going to tell you, but she wrote about their so-called romance in _Photoplay_ , and it’s on the news stands…so I thought you might want to say something to Paul before he goes home and at least hear his side of it?”

Marisol brought a shaky hand to her forehead. Donna’s voice was a low buzz barely audible beneath the sound of the blood pounding in her ears.

“Mari? I’m really sorry. I wish I was there. I’m worried about—”

“Have to go,” Marisol managed to say before she gently replaced the receiver and hugged herself tightly to control the shivering.

She always suspected it happened. Paul enjoyed sex and loved women and there was no way he was going without for three months. Random hookups on the road were one thing, but reading about it, having her friends telling her about his dates on the road? Having a relationship with a girl less than a week after he’d left her in San Francisco? No. This could not be happening.

Celebrity caterers like to talk. Maybe they were exaggerating. Maybe the actress made it all up to try to get attention. Everyone was always trying to get something from the Beatles. Marisol pushed away from the counter, forcing herself to keep it together, at least until she saw the story in print with her own eyes.

Ignoring Mrs. Sosa’s worried frown, she stumbled into the living room, praying she wouldn’t run into Paul before she could get her thoughts together.

Mercifully, Paul was in the bathroom, probably brushing his teeth again. He brushed his teeth ten or twelve times a day.

Ringo and George were smoking on the veranda, watching the raindrops from this morning’s shower drip from the palm trees. Ringo was holding a caramel colored kitten while another wound itself around George's legs.

"Hey, what do these cats eat?" George asked, his hands stilled on the guitar for once so he could hear her reply.

“I don't know,” Marisol said, pushing her hair out of eyes, her mind a million miles away. “They're practically feral now. The housekeeper feeds them and they catch lizards and mice and those giant palmettos I imagine."

"I knew it," George said. "You toss them a bit of sausage and they pounce on it and hold it still with their front paws. I said to Ring, whatever they've been eating, it's still alive when they find it.”

“You know there’s something weird about their toes?” Ringo asked.

Marisol sighed. “I don’t know. Listen, I have to run to the store. If I’m not back by the time you guys leave, I just wanted to wish you a safe journey and all that.”

George stood and slung his guitar around to the back so he could give her a half hug. “Thanks for everything. It was gear.”

Ringo stood and eyed her for a moment. “All right?” he asked. “You look a bit wobbly.”

Marisol didn’t meet his eyes. “Sure. Just need to grab a few things from the store.”

“Take care of yourself then,” Ringo said, pulling her in for a hug. “Careful of the puddles.”

Marisol peddled the bike furiously to the nearest drug store. On the rack in the back of the store were scores of magazines. She snatched up the latest issue of _Photoplay_. There it was, on the front cover, beneath her boyfriend’s smiling face, in bold red type: “Model/Actress Peggy Lipton reveals romance with Beatle Paul!”

Her handbag slid off her shoulder onto the floor. Ten pages in was a black and white photograph of Paul sitting on a stool with a pretty slender blonde standing and smiling beside him. The words swam in front of her eyes and she didn’t bother trying to read them. Just seeing the picture felt like a stab to the heart.

Slowly, like an old woman, she bent over, picked up her purse and held it protectively to her chest, as the world lurched sideways on its axis.

Back outside, the humidity felt like an oppressive blanket. Marisol stuffed the magazine in her handbag and stood beside the bicycle, forcing herself to breathe normally. This was not the end of the world. She’d been through worse. Her fiance, the love of her life, had _died._ That had felt like the end of the world, and somehow she had picked up the pieces and moved on. She could do it again. But this…this was different. It was both painful and humiliating. Her fists clenched on the handlebars. She desperately longed to be home, where she could hide out in her bedroom and cry for a solid week. But first she had to confront Paul. She had to give him the benefit of the doubt, give him a chance to explain, and if he couldn’t, she’d have to somehow stop herself from ripping every hair out of his head.

There were more than a dozen fans now at the front gate and two police officers standing guard. A new fishing rod was propped against the fence with a card attached. Years after Papa's death, fans still left gifts in front of his Key West home: paintings, books, fly rods, bouquets of flowers.

“Can you ask the Beatles to come out?” one of the girls asked as Marisol unlocked the gate and pushed her bike through.

“Eleven o’clock,” Marisol said without looking up. She almost hoped the girls went crazy and ripped Paul’s shirt off his back. Or mussed his hair. He would hate that.

Paul was crawling around on his hands and knees in the television room, picking up articles of clothing. None of them ever hung anything up. He picked up a sock and sniffed it and grimaced. “Ringo’s,” he said, throwing it back down. He scooped up another sock, smelled it and kept it.

Marisol stood over him. “Got a minute?” she said through clenched teeth.

Paul glanced up from his position on the floor, looking startled at the clipped tone of her voice.

“Sure, baby, what’s up?”

She strode away, still catching her breath from her frantic ride back to the house. When he followed her into the bedroom, she swung the door closed behind them and slung the magazine on the dresser. Please, she silently begged. _Tell me there’s nothing to this._

Paul glanced it and froze. She watched the color drain from his face before he turned again to her. There was panic in his eyes, in those eyes she loved. “Mari, sweetheart, look—“

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

He reached for her and she jerked her arm away. “Don’t touch me.”

He ran a hand through his hair, that hair she loved. “Listen, Mari, I can explain. I was gutted when you didn’t show up for our show in L.A., and I rang you all day long—”

“I was at the doctor in the city with my mother.” She bit off the words, glaring at him.

“I know that, now…but I phoned all the next day and kept getting your maid, and I gave her our phone number, and you never rang back…”

“Bianca barely speaks English, Paul. And I was working in the winery. And I don’t know what this has to do with you having another girl the minute I didn’t show up.” Her chest was heaving, and she had to push the words past the lump in her throat.

“Look, Mari, this bird meant nothing to me. She’s an actress and she wants to be a singer, although her voice is shite, and clearly she planned all this to get the publicity—”

Marisol started to crumble inside, the first loose, tumbling stones before a landslide. “Did you sleep with her?”

He blanched, the guilt and panic naked in his eyes.“Baby, listen to me. I didn't know why you didn't show up in L.A., when you were only six hours away. It hit me like a slap in the face. This bird kept showing up everywhere, getting herself invited to every party, hanging out at the pool—”

The rocks tumbled, gathering speed. Marisol lifted her hands as if about to brush away a strand of hair, but instead she covered her face to stifle a sob. She was hunched forwards, wisps of hair falling around her face. “Please. Please stop talking.”

She felt Paul closing in on her, reaching for her. She lifted her chin, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “I said don’t touch me!”  
He pulled back, hands rising as if in surrender. “Okay, okay…I just don’t want us to say goodbye like this. I…I don’t want to say goodbye to you at all. We can fix this. I don’t want anyone else.”

She shook her head, violently. “No. There is no us. There is no we.”

“This will never happen when you move in with me. I swear it. I only want us to be together.“ His eyes were pleading.

“That is never going to happen. Ever.”

“Think about what you’re saying, Mari. I love you—”

“You LOVE me? How many other girls have there been, Paul, who just didn’t get interviewed by _Photoplay_?” Her voice was starting to sound hysterical. She brought her hand to her throat, trying to catch her breath.

“I can be faithful to you, Mari, if we’re together. I promise. We can work it out.”

His words weren’t even reaching her brain any more, through the fog of anger and hurt. A suffocating sensation tightened her throat and made it hard to talk. She lowered her voice and captured his eyes with hers, wanting there to be no mistake how deadly serious she was.

“If you love me, like you say, then you must do this for me. I want you to pack up your things and go, and do not come after me. I am about twenty seconds from falling to pieces. Please don’t make me do it in front of you and Neil and Mal and all your friends.”

Paul squeezed his eyes closed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Please don’t do this to us. Please don’t end it. Not like this.” When he opened them, his eyes were wet, turning his eyelashes to black spikes, a glazed look of despair spreading over his face.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You’ve broken my heart, Paul. I need you to let me go. Please.” With a hand over her mouth to hold back a sob, Marisol turned and fled from the room.

She sat there, staring into the glassy eyes of a wildebeest coming out of the wall, wondering how she could have been so naive to let Paul break her heart. Girls threw themselves at him. He wasn't a monk. Only an idiot would trust him with her heart.

This room, so full of memories, so full of her Papa. She could almost picture him standing hunched over the black Royal typewriter as the ceiling fan whirred, the click clack of the keys, a pause while Papa stretched and dug a tanned hand into the muscles of his back, his brow creased with pain, a muttered oath as he ripped out a page, wadded it up and tossed it in the direction of the waste basket.

"I still miss you so much, Papa," she whispered, dropping her chin onto her knees and squeezing her eyes closed.

Muted footsteps on the stairs and a sharp rap vibrated the wood behind her head. "Hemingway? Open up."

_Lennon._

"Go away," she rasped.

"C'mon. Let me in."

John. She hadn't even said goodbye to him. "Are you alone?"

“No, I’m with the bloody Russian Imperial Army. Open up.”

With a shuddering sigh, she scooted over against the wall, reached up and unlocked the door.

John glanced at her, then away, his gaze darting around the room. "So this is where the magic happened." Closing the door quietly, he sat on the floor next to her and gathered his knees to his chest, mimicking her position.

“What’d you do to Macca? He looks like a sad sack of shite.” He gave her a sidelong look. “And you look even worse.”

Marisol stared back at him, at that face she'd come to adore, and realized that never seeing Paul again meant never seeing any of them again, and suddenly she was sobbing into her hands.

“Hey.” John wrapped an arm across her shoulders and pulled her against his chest, resting his chin on her bowed head. “Don’t cry over that stupid git. He ain’t worth yer tears.”

“I’m not crying over him,” she sobbed into his shoulder. I was just thinking about…that thing with Cuba…all those poor refugees and…sharks…”

“Yeah, that’s a drag.” John rubbed comforting circles on her back while she cried. “I can see how that would get you down.”

She finally composed herself and pulled away, rubbing at her eyes and nose. She looked over at John and touched his shoulder. “I got your shirt all wet, blubbering like that.”

“S’all right. Birds cry over me all the time. Three times a day, minimum.”

Her throat ached when she gave a choked laugh. Leave it to Lennon to give her something to laugh about through the tears.

John reached in his pocket and pulled out a partially smashed package of British cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled before he spoke. “Macca can be a twit, but he is a twit who cares deeply about you. You do know that, right?”

She bit her lip to stop it from trembling. “Yeah. Well he has a funny way of showing it.”

John rested his head against the back of the door, exhaling a breath of smoke at the ceiling.

“I guess I have an old-fashioned view of romance,” Marisol continued. “It involves fidelity.”

John grimaced and didn’t meet her eyes. “Nobody really knows what it’s like, being the Beatles. We’re like circus animals, trapped in our rooms until it’s time to perform again. A different town every night, but we never see anything but a plane, a car, a room, a stage, a car, a room. My entire view of America for the last month is over the blue shoulder of a policeman. It’s fuckin’ stressful, and exhausting, and it’s fuckin’ lonely. Whatever happens on the road, in my opinion? It’s just four lads tryin’ to find a way to sleep at night until this is all over and we can get back home. Whatever gets you through the night.”

Marisol shuddered involuntarily from more unshed tears. “Are you that over it already?”

“Hell yes. All I wanted was to play music and make enough money so I didn’t have to get a real job. I never expected anything like this. None of us did. How could we? There’s never been anything like this. We’re doomed, you know, like monkeys in a zoo. Everyone needs space. Everyone needs to be left alone.”

There were voices out in the courtyard, the slamming of a door, the distant crying of a sea gull. “Eppy is here now. They’ll be looking for me.”

They both climbed to their feet. John held his cigarette out to one side, gazing down at her.

“Can I ask you something, Hemingway? Why did you leave England in the first place, if you wanted it to work with Paul? You had him, y’know. Seems to me if you loved the lad you’d have stayed put.”

“I don't know. It’s not that simple.”

“It’s as simple as you want it to be.”

“Shut up. I'm going to miss you, you jackass.”

“Take care of yourself, eh?” John pressed a kiss to her forehead and was gone.

  
Marisol slid back down the wall and hugged her knees to her chest, resting her head on her forearms and letting hot tears leak from her eyes, feeling more alone than an astronaut. Sea birds cawed and palm fronds answered in the breeze outside the studio. _Whispering about her._

_Didn’t you know, you stupid girl, that love is not for you._

She didn’t move until the last door closed and the last feminine squeal from the front gates died away. Then she walked to the bookcase and pulled out the book that held the note Paul had typed. She ripped the note into minuscule strips and let the pieces flutter into a trash can.

The door to her bedroom was open and there was a folded sheet of paper on top of her purse with her name written shakily in Paul’s handwriting. She stared at it for an endless minute before ripping it into shreds, unread, and tossing the pieces in the trash.

Mr. Sosa walked in to let Marisol know there was someone looking for her at the front gate. Still in a daze, Marisol wandered outside to find a Pan Am representative holding her suitcase, a broad smile on his face.

“Fantastic!” Marisol said, flashing a slightly hysterical grin. “You’ve found it just in time for me to give you another go at it!”

She changed flights in Miami for her nonstop to San Francisco, and was shocked to be met in the terminal by a reporter and a camera man. “Miss Hemingway, care to comment on your relationship with Paul McCartney?”

Marisol sucked in a breath, jamming a pair of sunglasses on her face while the camera man snapped away. “There is no relationship,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Isn’t it true that you just spent the better part of a week in Key West with Paul McCartney at your grandfather’s home?” the reporter continued. “You were photographed dancing together at Sloppy Joe’s.”

Marisol darted into the nearest restroom, the reporter flinging a final question at her. “Would you care to comment on Paul McCartney and Peggy Lipton?”

Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely lock the door to the stall. She sagged against the door, pressing her knuckles into her eyelids under her shades and letting out a ragged sob. Why now? Of all the times for this to happen, why had the media found out about them now when it was over? She must have been a really terrible person in a former life. She must have worn slippers made from the fur of dead puppies and flicked babies on the soles of their feet to make them cry. That’s the only reason she could come up with that her life should turn out this way, devastated and heart broken over two men in a little over a year. She cowered in the toilet stall like a hunted animal until the last possible moment to catch her flight. It was time to go back to California and take care of herself. This was the very last time she would give her heart away so carelessly. This was the very last time she’d be criss-crossing the country with a broken heart over Paul McCartney.

 


	35. If I Needed Someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I needed someone to love  
> You're the one that I'd be thinking of  
> If I needed someone

 

Marisol moved like a robot through the next two weeks. Her only goal was to slog through each day of classes and dinner with her parents and hold in the tears until she could lock herself in her bedroom at night and sob herself to sleep.

Donna was a godsend. Feeling horrible for having broken the news that had broken her best friend’s heart, Donna tried everything she could think of to distract her. One afternoon she showed up with a big smile on her face, pulled Marisol behind the barn and brought out a tiny baggie full of weed. Marisol burst into tears.

“Oh my god! This is not the reaction I expected,” Donna said, throwing her arms around her friend.

“Paul smokes pot every day for breakfast,” Marisol wailed. "They were so funny together. I'll never see any of them again."

“Okay, it’s okay,” Donna said, rocking her and patting her back. “We’ll never smoke weed again. We'll just drink more wine. You don't need those idiots.”

 

Intro to Journalism was Marisol’s last class before lunch on Monday. She was collecting her things, her mind a million miles away, when her shoulder bag slid off the back of her chair. It fell at the feet of a tall, dark-haired boy behind her and a tampon rolled out. _Of course it did._ It couldn't have been a pen, or a butcher knife with blood on it, or a bag of pot, it had to be a tampon.

"Sorry," he said, in a clearly British accent, reaching for her bag.

Her eyes snapped up to his face. Grey eyes, pale skin...and a dimple in his chin.

"Sorry," he said again when their fingers brushed as he handed her the purse. Marisol scooped up the tampon and stuffed it inside the bag.

"Thanks," she said, and he gave her a nod.

That might have been the end of it, would have been the end of it, if not for that accent.

"London?" she asked.

He raised a brow. "Was it the Earl Grey on my breath?"

"You said 'sorry' when I dropped my bag, and 'sorry' when you picked it up...and my mother is English, so the accent..." Marisol sighed. She really did not have the energy for this.

"Ah. We're probably cousins." He held out his hand. "James. Notting Hill."

"Marisol." She shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, James Notting Hill." She turned away, gathering her books. He was cute. And the last thing on earth she needed.

 

Paul called that night from New York. It was the last night of their incredibly successful American tour.

 _That voice._ Would there ever come a day when she could hear that voice without her heart breaking into little pieces?

"I miss you, Mari. I want to see you and work through this. I have two weeks off before we tour England again. If you won't go away with me, I'll come to California."

Instead of answering, she sat cross-legged on the floor and examined the ceiling, imagining what her life would be like if she'd never found out about Peggy Lipton. They might have shared two weeks together before Paul went on the road again. His life was madness. And now that she had this girl's image and story in her head, could she forgive him and trust him again? Not likely. The lifestyle, the constant travel, the alcohol, the drugs, the women, the reporters chasing her. No way in hell.

If she saw him again, she'd only fall more in love and be tempted to move in with him and wind up even more devastated the next time a girl wrote a magazine article about being with him. She'd have to limp home from England in disgrace with her mother saying 'I told you so.'

Did she believe that at barely twenty-two years old Paul was ready to settle down with one woman out of the thousands who threw themselves at him? Also no way in hell. It just wasn't their time. She had met someone she could love desperately, but she had met him at the wrong time for both of them.

Static vibrated on the quiet line.

"Are you still there? Please talk to me, Mari. I'm leaving tomorrow and we'll be dealing with the shitty transatlantic calls again."

Marisol sucked in a deep breath. "I can't see you any more, Paul. Maybe someday, but not now. You can't come here."

"Mari, listen to me." Paul's voice sounded frantic. "I mucked it up, and I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you."

"I know you didn't," she said wearily. "It just wasn't the right time for us."

"What do you mean by that?" Paul demanded. "What do you mean not the right time?"

Marisol didn't answer. She sighed, closing her eyes and rubbing her temple. It seemed like she lived with a constant headache from either crying too much or holding back tears.

"You don't understand, Mari, you're breaking my fucking heart here."

"No, you don't understand. I lost the love of my life barely over a year ago, and I wasn't even close to being over it when I met you. And although you were good to me and good for me and we had a really good run, it was too soon. Maybe that's why I fought moving back to England. I just wasn't ready. My heart needs a break. Especially now."

"Wait. What you're saying is, you never loved me the way you loved your fiance? That I was some sort of rebound relationship?"

"I didn't say that at all."

The quiet ticking across the phone line was all she heard for the space of several long seconds.

"I don't believe it," Paul said. "I don't believe that when you were making love to me you were still thinking about someone else."

"Of course I wasn't. I was all in when I was with you. But six months after my fiancé died was too soon. It's a year and a half later and still too soon. I just want to be alone. I need to be alone."

"You told me you loved me," Paul said.

She sucked in a breath, pain radiating through her chest. He wasn't going to make this easy. Paul didn't like to lose. "I did love you. I do. But I don't want...I can't handle seeing you right now."

"I can't fucking believe this. I've spent the last week agonizing over this. You're the only girl I want and you're telling me you won't see me?"

"I'm sorry. I'm really not the girl for you right now."

"You have wrecked me Mari. I'm completely gutted."

"You'll be all right. You always land on your feet." Her voice caught on a sob. "Please don't call me again."

She held the phone to her chest for a few seconds, trying to catch her breath, trying not to break down.

"We can fix this," he was saying when she put the receiver back to her ear, wet with her tears. "I know we can. When we're together it's perfect."

"I don't want to be with you right now," Marisol insisted. "You can't say anything over the phone to change the way I feel."

There was a long, staticky silence.

"You're breaking my fucking heart right now, Mari. You're literally killing me here."

"Yeah, I know what that feels like. I have to go, Paul."

He was still talking when she hung up, telling her to wait, calling her name.

Marisol dropped the telephone into the cradle and ran through the house to her bedroom, falling onto the bed and allowing herself to cry for what she hoped would be the last time over Paul McCartney.

 

Cookie was whimpering outside the bedroom door when Marisol finally raised her head from the tear-soaked pillow. Marisol opened the door and sank to her knees, burying her face in the dog's soft fur. "We'll be okay, won't we girl. You're the best girl." Cookie tapped out her answer with her tail on the carpet.

Marisol stumbled into the bathroom, planning to drown her sorrows with a steaming bubble bath, a cold glass of wine and a James Michener epic novel about Hawaii.

She opened the medicine cabinet, her hand freezing as she reached for the tiny pack of pills. She'd taken the full seven days of placebo pills, and it was time to begin the next package. Her period should have started the first day. She'd always been perfectly regular since she started taking birth control pills, and now she was a week late.

She closed the cabinet and brought a hand to her forehead, watching in the mirror as her face drained of color. Impossible. Not now. Life couldn't be that cruel. They'd used condoms, except for that one time...

 _Dear god no. Not pregnant. Not now._ She squeezed her eyes closed and prayed. _God, I’ll be so good. I’ll never have sex again until I’m married. I’ll never have an impure thought. I’ll become a nun. I’ll spend my life counseling battered women. For the church. Please don’t let this be happening._

 

**************

"You have to tell him," Margo insisted. "There's no getting around it." Marisol and her sister sat on the edge of the pool with their legs dangling in the water. Lucy and Sophie splashed nearby, enjoying one of the last hot days of summer.

"I know, I'm working it out. Ugh. I just told him never to call me again."

"What's the problem? You two were very close." She gestured at Marisol's belly. "Obviously."

"Because he'll have one of two reactions and both are bad."

"Lucy! Stop drinking the swimming pool!" Margo flicked her eyes to her sister. "Elaborate, please."

"He will either say we have to do the right thing, like John did with Cynthia, and marry me and feel trapped and miserable and resent me--"

"That’s taking a lot of leaps. He never seemed to mind being trapped with you from what I could see."

"--Or he'll tell me to get rid of it and make me hate him."

"Mommieee!" Sophie screamed before going under the water.

"Lucy! Stop drowning your sister!" Margo sighed. "I swear, that kid will be the end of me." She slipped into the water and swam away, gliding back with Sophie on one hip. "There are other reactions," Margo continued. "He could actually want his own child." She pushed Sophie's wet hair off her forehead and gave her a series of smacking kisses on her pink cheek. "Look at me, I fell pregnant right away and Nick and I are happy as can be."

Lucy paddled over and attached herself to Margo's other hip. "I love you Mommy," she said, one leg extended, her foot digging into her sister's belly.

"Ouch! Stop it!" Sophie screamed.

Marisol slid into the pool, reaching for Lucy. "Come here, Trouble. You're so much like your mama. She used to drown me daily." Lucy wriggled to get down and Marisol lowered her into the water, supporting her as she floated on her back.

“It's different," she said to Margo. "Paul is bigger than Elvis. Why would he ever want to settle down when he can have anyone, everyone?”

“Maybe because it's not all it's cracked up to be, jumping from bed to bed, orgies every night, waking up with strange women in strange beds, not remembering the night before—“

"I get the picture, you can stop now."

“—and because everyone longs for that one person to come home to, relax with, be themselves with, to love them for who they are when the cameras are off. Even Elvis."

“I don't trust him any more. I guess that's the bottom line. I don't trust him not to hurt me and it hurts less to stay here without him than to risk it.”

“You're a Hemingway, you're a risk taker.”

Marisol grimaced. “I’m a Hemingway who can't drink for nine months. I live at a winery with two heavy drinkers.”

“It's gonna be a long nine months, I'm not gonna lie.”

“The thought of telling Mother is worse than the thought of telling Paul.”

Margo smiled a mysterious little smile. “Oh I don’t know, she might surprise you.”

 

********************

“Oh, darling. This was exactly what I was afraid of.” Marisol's mother's face crumpled, her lips twisted in dismay. "You're such a smart girl, how could you let this happen?"

Marisol lowered her head, hot tears of shame building behind her eyes. She had never pleased her mother, not once that she could remember. "Guess I'm not that smart after all."

She covered her face and was startled to feel her mother's arms around her. She couldn't remember the last time her mother had touched her, except to smooth her hair down and tell her what a mess it was. Marisol wrapped her arms around her mother's back, surprised at how tiny she felt. "I'm sorry I'm not the daughter you wanted," she said through a sob.

"Don't be ridiculous, Marisol. That's the pregnancy hormones talking."

Her mother pulled away, still holding Marisol by the shoulders. "It isn’t the worst thing that could happen. The worst thing is being trapped in a marriage that neither one of you is ready for. Believe me, I’ve been in your situation."

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment. It was as if her mother was waiting for her to put one and one together and come up with three. “What? Are you saying that you and dad… that Marcus…?"

Her mother stepped back, waving a hand. “I’m saying you aren’t the first young lady to go through this, and we will of course support you. Dry your tears, Marisol. Crying does no good for you or the baby. You won't have the luxury of being so sensitive about everything when you become a mother."

Marisol swiped at her cheeks, still stunned by the idea that her parents had been expecting Marcus when they got married.

Her mother moved to the kitchen window, staring across the sweeping hills of recently harvested grapes as she fingered the strand of pearls at her throat. "You'll spend the winter in England with my mother. You'll leave before you start to show. People talk, you know. And when you come back we'll say..." She turned from the window with a sigh. "We'll think of something. In thirty years you will be happily married to a nice plastic surgeon in the Bay Area expecting grandchildren and no one will be counting months."

“I’m marrying a doctor now?” Marisol mumbled through her tears.

“What I don’t want is you rushing into marriage because of this, Marisol. Pull yourself together and make an appointment with Dr. Samuels. His office is quite discreet. And while you're at it, darling, make an appointment at the salon. That hair of yours..."

 

*****************************

 

Marisol was finishing up yesterday's assignment moments before class, her head bent over her desk, when she noticed a pair of long legs cross in front of her and sprawl in the seat next to her.

She gave him a sideways look. James from Notting Hill was juggling two paper cups along with his notebooks. He settled himself and placed one on the edge of her desk. "Fancy a cuppa?" He didn't smile. No Paul McCartney sort of smile that made her heart flop around. He merely looked at her, searching her face as if she was a mystery to solve and the solution was written in her eyes.

"Thanks, you're very kind," she said, blinking away. She lifted the lid, the aroma wafting up and giving her a sudden pang of nostalgia for her Grandma Bellamy. _Were pregnant women supposed to drink caffeine? Jesus. This couldn't be happening to her._

The first sip made her stomach growl. "Mm it's good. Do you have any of those little biscuits?"

He made a show of patting his jacket pockets. "I am woefully unprepared, it appears."

"That's all right. Maybe next time."

 

Another letter arrived from Paul that afternoon, postmarked from New York. Whether it was before or after their last phone conversation, she couldn't say. She turned the envelope over in her hands, staring at the careful handwriting.

In the back of her closet was a battered blue suitcase. She wriggled the keys from the lock and spread the suitcase open on the rug. Inside was everything that reminded her of Paul. The bracelet he’d brought her from Sweden, the sweater from Ireland, the bathing suit from Florida and negligee from Paris. And letters from all over the globe. Their relationship could be plotted out on a map and it all ended in one great big heartache.

She tossed the unopened letter on top of everything else and closed and locked the suitcase, wedging it at the very back of her closet where she wouldn't see it unless she was actively looking for it. She got to her feet and dusted off her hands. Cookie panted softly beside her, looking up as if to say 'Well done.'

Now everything of Paul was out of sight and out of mind. All but the constant physical ache. She’d started out furious with Paul. Now she was just terribly sad. Donna said it was the stages of grief. All she knew was, she didn’t want to go through anything like this ever again.

She rested her hands on her stomach and realized the one glaring flaw in her plan. She could lock away all her memories of Paul, but even if he weren't a Beatle, even if she didn't hear his voice constantly over the airwaves and see his face every time she passed a grocery store check out counter, she was having his child. There would never be a day when he wouldn't cross her mind, for the rest of her life.

"Let's go check on the horses, Cookie girl," she said, swallowing the lump in her throat.

 

On Friday, James from Notting Hill placed a small tin of shortbread biscuits on the edge of her desk on his way to the seat next to her.

She bit her lip to keep from smiling. _English men. Dammit._

After class he asked if she wanted to get a proper cup of tea at the student union building.

She opened her mouth to say no and was surprised to hear herself saying "Sure, why not?"

 

James placed a mug in front of her and sat across from her at a table by the window. "You look like you have a lot on your mind."

"You have no idea."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Thanks, but no."

A smile flickered across his lips as he moved his gaze out the window. It was another boringly perfect sunny California day, not a cloud in the sky. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

Marisol opened the tin of biscuits, took one and pushed the rest over to him. To keep him from asking her anything else, and because she was genuinely curious, she peppered him with questions.

He was a junior, one year ahead of her, he had three little sisters, he was a Leeds United man through and through and loved pizza. He'd applied for and received a journalism scholarship to UC Davis because of a girl, and by the end of his freshman year he'd lost the girl and kept the scholarship.

“I like that. You actually moved to California for a girl, instead of her moving to England for you.”

James shrugged. "Always fancied learning to surf."

He asked if she had a boyfriend and she made a face. "That's the last thing I need right now. Or ever."

James looked thoughtful. "I know how you feel. Just give it time. We're not all arses, you know."

The radio beside the cash register began playing “A Hard Day’s Night.” A pretty waitress was wiping down the table next to them. She began to sing along, slightly off key.

Marisol felt that familiar stab in her heart at the sound of Lennon’s vocals, Paul’s high harmony on the refrain, Ringo’s sloshy “hi-hats” and George’s intricate guitar work. The exuberant, aggressive driving energy of the lyrics. She huffed out a breath with a little roll of her eyes. There was no way, ever, to stop thinking about Paul.

James glanced at the waitress and slid his eyes back to Marisol. "Not a Beatles fan?"

"Oh..no, I..." She stammered through an excuse. James didn't miss much. "No, they're good. Maybe a tiny bit overplayed..."

James laughed. "No kidding. Their music is great but their fans ruin it for me." He leaned back, stretching his long legs into the aisle. "My little sister Sarah is batshit crazy for them, especially that git Paul McCartney. Annoyed the bloody hell out of me this past summer."

Marisol fumbled her mug, sloshing lukewarm tea over her hand. She wiped at it with a napkin. "I should be going. I have to work. My brother is a slave driver."

"Oh, right." James stood, towering over her. "See you next week then."

She nodded. "Next week." She would see James in class on Monday, and possibly for eight more weeks after that, but then Marisol would be spending the winter in England. She walked alone to her car, unable to shake off the latest catchy Beatles ear worm. The Beatles had been the soundtrack to everyone’s summer. They were everywhere. The world was gripped by Beatlemania and the so-called British Invasion. There was no escaping Paul McCartney.

For her mental health, she was keeping track:

Number of days since she’d spoken to Paul McCartney: 14

Number of days she hadn’t thought about Paul McCartney: 0


	36. It's Only Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's only love and that is all,  
> Why should I feel the way I do?  
> It's only love, and that is all,  
> But it's so hard loving you

It was the longest flight of her life. Marisol was nauseous from San Francisco to London and spent most of the time trying to think of anything besides throwing up. _Please god, don’t let me throw up in the dirty lavatory_ was her mantra for the day. To make matters worse, the entire flight over the ocean was the bumpiest she could remember. Heavy cloud cover obstructed the slightest glimpse of the sea.

The past two months had whizzed by, with classes and the harvest and orders to fill and the animals to care for and with so much else constantly on her mind. She'd gone out with James occasionally on weekends, sometimes double dating with Donna. He was sweet and intelligent and endearingly serious-minded. He'd kissed her after their dates but Marisol never let it progress any further. She made it clear she had just ended a relationship and only wanted to be friends. Although she suspected James would like their relationship to be physical--he was a man after all--he didn't pressure her. This came as a bit of a surprise, after her torrid relationship with Paul. There was no way Paul would have waited so patiently to be intimate with her. But then, she couldn't have waited patiently for Paul either. The two of them had been like magnets colliding. She'd never felt that sort of attraction before or since, and accepted that she probably never would again.

In early December she had called Brian’s secretary and simply said, “Could you please tell Paul that Marisol called?” The phone rang thirty minutes later.

“Hi. It’s Paul.” _That voice._ She was suddenly so nervous she could barely speak.

“Hi! That was…fast.”

“Joanne called me at the studio. What’s up?” His voice was flat, unemotional. This was beginning to feel like a terrible idea.

Nothing like cutting to the chase. “Um…well…” She tried to draw in a breath deep enough to feel calm, but couldn’t. “I just…I wondered how you were doing.”

“Good, good. How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Great. That’s good to hear. I didn't know that, since you seem to have lost the ability to write. Or to answer the phone."

Marisol squeezed her eyes closed. Of course he was angry about the way she'd stopped responding to his letters and the way she'd ducked his last telephone calls. His chatty disposition was noticeably absent, and this phone call had turned into the most awkward few minutes of her life.

Nothing to do but plunge ahead. The words came out in a nervous rush. "I know, I just needed time to think, but I wanted to tell you that I'm going to be in England in a couple of weeks, and I wondered...I'll be at Angela's for a few nights and I wondered if I could see you while I'm there."

She heard his sharp intake of breath. It felt like a millennia passed before he answered. “You’re going to be in London.”

“Yes, right, the 15th actually.”

He didn’t respond immediately, which made her feel like she should give him a way out and end the awkwardness. “I understand, you know, you’re probably terribly busy, no big deal, maybe we could make it some other time—”

“Mari. I’d love to see you.”

“Oh, right.” Her breath came out in a relieved rush.

“I still have Angela’s number. I’ll give you a ring there on the 15th?”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

“All right, Mari?” he asked quietly.

“Oh yes. Never better!”

He rang off without any more conversation and Marisol stared at the phone for a minute before groaning and letting her forehead drop onto her crossed arms. If it was that awkward talking to him on the phone, what was it going to be like trying to tell him she was carrying his child?

 

Angela met her at the airport. They had an emotional reunion and a heart-to-heart talk back at Angela’s flat when Marisol told her friend the reason she was here.

“You’re lucky though, that your parents are supportive,” Angela said. “What do you think Paul will do?”

“I honestly have no idea.” Marisol rubbed her palms over her stomach. “This nausea never goes away.”

“You look a little green,” Angela said. “Why don’t you nap? I’ll wake you if Paul phones.”

“Good idea. I never can sleep on planes and I always miss a night of sleep.”

Marisol had barely laid her head on the pillow when Angela called her to the phone.

“Hello there,” Paul said, his voice sounding like he was in the very next room. “I hear you’ve landed safely and all that. Joanne made a few calls for me to Pan Am to track your flight.”

“Oh? Right, here I am.” Marisol pressed her fingertips into her eyes, trying to push away the jet lag fogginess.

“We’re in the studio all day, how about I send a car for you around dinner time?”

“Sure, that’s great.” All Marisol could think was how glad she was to be able to sleep before seeing Paul.

“See you soon then.”

 

Angela was waiting outside the kitchen when Marisol hung up the phone.

“What are you wearing to see the man tonight?”

“I don’t know, I would have thought about it more if I wasn’t so busy trying not to heave all the time. Come and help me?”

Angela went through Marisol’s suitcase, finally holding up a sleeveless black sweater and a red and black plaid mini skirt.

“I won’t be wearing that much longer, guess it will do.”

“Damn, dolly. With your red boots, his boner will be enormous.”

“I have to lie down,” Marisol said, stumbling back to the bed.

 

It was after ten that night when the car finally showed up at Angela’s flat.

Marisol hadn’t eaten since lunch, expecting a nice dinner with Paul, and she was ready to chew her arm off. It felt that way throughout the pregnancy. When meal times rolled around, she was ravenous, and any delay made her stomach vigorously protest. She would scarf down the food, thinking it would quell the nausea, but half the time she would regret having eaten after the first few bites.

The driver brought her to the Ad Lib club in the center of London with instructions to ask for Neil at the door. The club was on the top floor above the Prince Charles Cinema, and the only way to reach it was a small lift. Marisol rode up with a gaggle of women close to her age, all chattering excitedly. They were barely understandable with their strong Cockney accents, but she was sure she heard the word Beatles more than once. Marisol leaned against the back wall of the lift with an anxious, gnawing sensation in her gut. She was seconds away from seeing Paul and had no idea how this night was going to go.

The lift opened into a crowded penthouse with fur-lined walls, mirrors everywhere, and tanks of piranha fish. A huge window on one side looked out over sparkling London. It was a shouty, lively scene. Marisol gave her name and Neil’s to a doorman and a server dressed in black was dispatched to show her through the club.

Booker T’s “Green Onions” pounded from a DJ booth in front of a dance floor filled with couples jiving to the beat. An alcove on one side of the dance floor was roped off, where the Beatles appeared to be holding court. Marisol was led through a throng of girls to where Neil and Mal and a few club bouncers formed a human hedge. If anyone got too close to the Beatles or bothered them, Marisol knew that ever observant Neil would send them packing.

Neil and Mal both smiled when they saw her. “You’re back again!” Neil said, squeezing her hand.

“Can’t seem to stay away!” Marisol smiled shakily back, trying to hide her nervousness as Neil unhooked a rope to let her pass.

George was sitting on one of the sofas with a beautiful, thin blonde girl and another couple Marisol didn’t know, and Ringo was dancing off to the side with a pretty brunette that she assumed must be Maureen. Paul was perched on the back of the sofa behind George. Two pretty young women stood in front him, gazing up at him adoringly.

As if he had some sort of sixth sense, Paul turned around the instant Marisol's eyes fastened on his shiny black head of hair. He set down his drink and made some parting remark to the girls and in seconds was standing in front of her.

Marisol had no idea what sort of expression was on her face when she saw him, but Paul gave her a look that could only be described as tenderness. His eyes took in every part of her face, lingering on her mouth before fastening on her eyes and curving his lips into a smile. He gave her a sweet, chaste hug. “Hello there, Stranger.” His low voice in her ear sent shivers down her spine.

His fingers slid inside hers as if it was something they still did every day. “Good to see you again. You're absolutely lovely, as always.”

“Paul,” she managed to say, heart pounding in her ears. He wore a black turtleneck sweater beneath a tailored grey suit. Her fingers ached at the memory of touching that dark, shining hair. He flashed her a smile that lit up his whole face. And that light was shining directly at her.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, and she pulled herself out of her trance.

“Just soda water.”

He arched a brow. “Since when?”

“Jet lag,” she mumbled.

He gave her order to a passing waiter and turned back around. “How was your flight over?” His eyes barely strayed from her mouth.

“Good,” she said. The nausea and turbulence were a distant memory now.

“Good,” he repeated. He reached up, a thumb carefully touching her bottom lip. “I’ve never seen you wear this color.”

“Is it too red?”

“No. Not too red.” He blinked, shaking his head. “You can’t be real.”

She forced out a laugh. “It feels that way for me too.”

Paul took a step back, his hand dropping to his side. “I should introduce you around.”

Maureen was a tiny brunette doll, sweet and shy and young looking. Ringo seemed thrilled to be squiring her around, and they rarely stopped dancing.

The beautiful blonde with George was named Pattie. She was gorgeous with big blue eyes and a disarming smile, dressed in a fashionable blue mini dress and high white boots. When Paul and Marisol settled on the sofa opposite them, Pattie seemed to spend a great deal of energy watching them with huge curious eyes.

“From my heart I mean these words, you’re a wonderful one,” Paul sang along with Marvin Gaye, smiling at Marisol as she got her club soda from the waiter and took a long sip.

“What do you think of this place?” he asked.

“Looks like all the young and beautiful people of London have turned out tonight."

“It’s the place to be young and beautiful,” Paul agreed. “They play nothing but Motown and Stax music. A black chef comes out at 11:30 and bangs a tambourine and everyone dances the Conga.”

“I do like the music. What’s with the fur lined walls?”

“Keeps the noise in. Are you sure you don’t want a drink? Some wine maybe, or whisky?” Paul asked, lighting a cigarette.

Marisol shook her head. “I’m hungry, actually. I thought we were having dinner.”

“You haven’t eaten?”

“No, because you said dinner, I’m quite sure of it.”

“Oh. Well, we just had sandwiches at the studio. They serve pub fare here. I’ll have someone fetch you a menu.”

“I don’t want bar snacks, I want dinner.” Marisol took another gulp of club soda, set it down on the table in front of them, and drew in a deep breath. She felt like she was going to be sick if she didn’t eat something soon. Cigarette smoke was everywhere, and although it never bothered her before, she suddenly felt like she couldn’t get any fresh air.

Paul narrowed his eyes at her, looking as if he was trying to figure out if she was seriously getting upset about the food choices. A ring of smoke wafted her way, making her stomach lurch. She brought her hand to her mouth. “I need to go to the restroom.”

“Pattie!” Paul called, “Take Mari to the loo, would you love?” And then, shouting to Neil: “Neil, watch the birds, lad!”

Marisol sat on the toilet with her head between her knees, trying not to be sick while Pattie prattled on from the next stall. “How long have you and Paul known each other?”

“I don’t know, a little over a year.” She was definitely going to faint if she didn’t get some food.

“So when did you see him last?”

 _What was with the third degree?_ The toilet flushed beside her and Marisol didn’t bother answering. She took ten deep breaths of the relatively smoke free air and joined Pattie in front of the mirrors where she was washing her hands.

“You’re the American girl, I’ve heard about you. In Florida, wasn’t it?”

Marisol nodded. “Yeah. I think maybe I heard about you too.” She managed a smile.

The door to the restroom opened and two girls wearing dark eye liner sauntered in. They looked at Pattie and Marisol and then at each other, and the bleached blonde popped her gum and said, “Oh look, would yer? It’s the Beatles’ slags.”

Marisol’s mouth fell open. Beside her Pattie clicked her purse closed and said, “Yeah, you wish you were Beatles’ slags but they would never look at ya since yer absolute biffas.”

Before she could react, the bleached blonde spit out a wad of gum that bounced off Marisol’s arm. “Ugh!” Marisol wiped at her arm in disgust, but that was only the beginning. The brunette launched herself at Pattie, kicking at her booted shins. Pattie yelled "Bitch!" and grabbed a hunk of brown hair.

Marisol lunged at the door. “NEIL!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. The DJ had started playing a softer number and it seemed like Marisol’s voice could be heard all the way to her grandmother's house in Sussex.

Neil stood just outside the door, his brow wrinkling with alarm.

“These bitches are attacking us!” Marisol stumbled out the door as Neil lurched through it, shouting “Hey! Hey!” and pulling Pattie out by one arm.

Neil paused to tell a club bouncer about the girls in the loo but Marisol was too upset to wait. It felt like every eye in the club was on her as she flounced back to where Paul was waiting at the rope, overlooking the dance floor.

As Marisol drew near, she realized several beautiful young women on the dance floor had turned away from their partners and were miming a sort of striptease in front of Paul to the tune of “Gee Whiz, Look at His Eyes.” It was so obvious and ridiculous that she nearly laughed.

This was too much. Between the jet lag and the pregnancy hormones and the nausea, she wasn’t sure if she was going to laugh hysterically or cry or strangle someone.

“What’s going on now?” Paul asked when she stopped in front of him, panting to catch her breath.

“What’s going on? What’s going on?” Her voice was rising, sounding almost hysterical. “I’ve just been in a bar fight, that’s what’s going on. Someone spit gum at me. And I’m about to gnaw my arm off.”

“Mari, are you all right?”

“No, Paul, I’m not all right. I want some bloody damn dinner, like you promised!”

He stared at her like she’d grown horns.

With her hands on her hips, she glared back at him like she might gnaw HIS arm off if dinner didn’t show up soon.

Neil interrupted the staring contest. “Mari, you know this bloke?”

 _Dear God, there was James_. James from Notting Hill. Standing on the other side of the rope, looking at her like he wanted her head on a silver plate. _Oh Jesus. Now this_. It wasn’t all bad though. Maybe he’d get her some dinner before yelling at her.

“I have to go,” she said to Paul, snatching her handbag from the sofa.

Paul’s jaw dropped. “Wait, what the hell, Mari? Are you coming back?”

“I don’t know, I think so. I’ll let you know.” There was one thing on her mind and one thing only. Get food before she passed out or threw up.


	37. It's So Hard Loving You

“James, I’m so glad you’re here. Help me find something to eat.”

His look was incredulous, but James followed Marisol out of the club, pausing to say something to a group of people at a table before joining her at the coat check station.

“You walked right past me, and I thought I must be losing my mind," James said when they were in the lift. "I thought you had a twin or something. Then I heard you swearing at Paul McCartney in that American accent and…bloody hell, Marisol, why were you swearing at Paul McCartney?”

“I don’t know, does it really matter?” She pulled on her coat and collapsed against the wall of the lift. “God, I’m so hungry right now I think I’m going to be sick.”

His brows pulled together, his grey eyes darkening as he held her gaze. ”What matters is you knew I was going home to London for Christmas and you never mentioned you'd be here too." He glared at her, frowning. “Why on earth didn't you tell me you were coming to London?”

She hugged herself tightly, trying to quell the nausea. “I’ll explain everything if you’ll just find me some decent food.”

With his hands stuffed in his pockets and a vexed look on his face, James led the way out of the lift and onto the street. He walked ahead of her, so fast she was forced to almost jog to keep up. Then at the corner he thrust out a hand to stop her from stepping off the curb as a black taxi sped past. “For god’s sake, don’t be such a Yank. You do know which direction the traffic is coming from, surely.”

They crossed the road when the traffic cleared, and James yanked her by the arm into a diner on the corner.

"Thank God," Marisol said, salivating over the menu. She stopped the first waitress she saw and said, "Scotch broth and bread and butter and cheese. With milk. And whatever the gentleman wants. God bless you."

“Marisol, what on earth? Are you all right?” James asked as soon as the startled waitress walked away.

"You’re the second person who’s asked me that in fifteen minutes."

"Do you have something you want to tell me?"

"No," she said, massaging her temples with her fingertips. She caught a whiff of the smoke that clung to her hair and grimaced. Her heightened sense of smell was another of the newfound joys of her condition. “I am glad to be away from all that smoke though.”

Their drinks arrived, and Marisol gratefully took a long swig of the milk.

James sipped his tea, his accusing gaze riveted on her. “I rarely go to clubs. My mate Pete invited me out and the birds he showed up with insisted on Leicester Square so they could spot a Beatle. I should have just rung you up, and arranged for a personal meeting with the band. If I’d had a clue that you were in London. Or that you were best mates with Paul McCartney. There seems to be an awful lot I don’t know about you, Marisol.”

“Are you finished?”

“Yes, but you aren't. You have quite a lot to tell me.”

“I will, I promise, as soon as I eat. Where is the food? What is taking so long?”

He blinked at her, understandably confused. She lowered her head onto her crossed arms, hoping James wouldn't interrogate her any more until after she'd eaten.

When the soup arrived, it was like she’d never tasted food before. "Oh my god, this is so good." She pushed the plate of bread and cheese towards James but he shook his head, watching her eat.

"No, you go ahead. I don't believe I've ever seen someone so singularly focused on Scotch broth before."

Finally sated, she pushed back the dishes and sighed contentedly, her hands resting on her stomach. She looked around the diner at last. It was bustling with night shift workers and club goers, one of the few places open this late. It was time to face the inevitable talk with James, but not here. "All right then. Let's take a walk and have a talk."

Bundled up in their coats, they sat on a step beneath the awning of a closed shop. The chilly air smelled of exhaust and damp stone, evoking strong memories of strolling the wet pavement of London with her hand tucked in the crook of Paul's elbow, their heads ducked against the wind.

James listened quietly as Marisol told him everything. How her fiancé died suddenly and how she fled to England and how Paul bounded into her life like an eager puppy. She told him how happy they'd been when they were together, but how there was never enough time and far too many goodbyes. Then the Beatles reached superstar status and it became impossible for them to be together, and Marisol found out about Paul with another girl and ended the relationship.

James nodded, his face grim. "That's quite a tale, Pet. But it doesn't explain what you're doing here, now."

"There is one other detail. I seem to have turned up pregnant."

With a groan, James dropped his face into his hands, his elbows on his knees.

Marisol waited, ducking her chin into the collar of her coat, feeling suddenly chilled. "I wish you would say something."

"I wish I could think of something to say." James lifted his head and rubbed a hand across his mouth. "This is abysmal."

"I'm not sure that's the word I would have used to describe my life, but okay..." She chewed her bottom lip, shaking her head. _Dammit, if he made her cry..._

“You must know the keen fondness I feel for you. I hoped that we..." He scowled and shook his head. "I'm sorry for you, Pet, because you so clearly fancy this wanker and he's not the one for you. He'll only break your heart again."

"He won't. I won't let him."

James reached for her hand. "You should have told me this ages ago." He brushed his lips across her knuckles. "I'm here for you. You don't have to be with someone who cheated on you."

The urge to jump to Paul's defense was impossible to resist. "It wasn't like that. He wanted me to move to England. He tried to make it work." She glanced at James and noted the doubtful look on his face and it irked her. "You don't know what his life is like."

"Quite right. It must be bloody brutal, having to satisfy a new woman every night."

Marisol jerked her hand from his and leapt to her feet. "I'm done talking now." She started walking in the direction of the club.

James caught up with her and took her by the elbow. "Please tell me you’re not going to end up married to this tosser."

"I really don’t see that happening. But I'm not going to listen to you insult him."

"I'm sorry, Marisol. I'm worried about you. And admittedly jealous. That twit has everything. Must he have you too?"

"He's not a twit. And how do you think he **got** everything? Paul has worked harder in the last few years than anyone I've ever known."

They were alone in the lift in an uncomfortable silence. The ride seemed to take forever. James waited while Marisol checked her coat, then he squired her into the club, pausing by the table where his friends were waiting. He hurriedly introduced her. A pretty brunette named Susan glared at her. Obviously that one had a thing for James.

Paul was at the rope making a group of young women giggle and swoon under the careful watch of Mal and Neil. He seemed to be scanning the club, and as soon as he saw Marisol he kept his gaze fixed on her, tracking her progress through the room.

Just before they reached the Beatles’ private alcove, James stopped and turned to her. Conscious of Paul's eyes on her, Marisol angled her body so that her back was to him, in case he was a lip reader now. This was none of his business, after all.

“Thank you for taking me to find something to eat," she said to James. "I’m sorry about not telling you everything sooner. We’ll talk maybe back home?”

James nodded. “You better believe it.” To Marisol’s surprise, he grabbed her face and placed a kiss next to her ear, whispering, “Pet, don’t do anything stupid while you’re here.”

Marisol turned away before she blurted out that she wasn't anyone's bloody pet and his possessiveness was becoming irksome.

 

On the other side of the rope, Paul tugged her by the arm to the back of the room, a what-the-hell-just-happened expression on his face. It had probably been awhile since Paul McCartney had been stood up at a night club. “Who the frigging hell was that?”

Marisol heaved out a sigh. “A friend from home. Sorry I cut out like that, but I really needed to eat something.”

"A friend, eh? I see." He tilted his head to the side, his gaze focused on her mouth. “Does this friend get to kiss those lips?”

"Stop it, Paul. He's only a friend.”

“He can be a friend who doesn't get to kiss you.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“No! For god’s sake, stop interrogating me.” She glared at him. “How many girls are you sleeping with, Paul?” Her voice came out louder than she intended, and George and Pattie both swiveled around to gawk at them.

Paul started to say something else, but his expression softened as Smokey Robinson and the Miracles began to sing. “Let's not quarrel. Here you are, in my very town..." He held out his arms. "Dance with me?"

She hesitated only a second before nodding yes, and he pulled her into a dark corner, shielded from prying eyes by a marble column between the sofas. She went into his arms without another thought.

“Feel better now?” The palm of his hand felt warm against her back. "Since you've eaten?"

“Mmm hmm.” She rested her head on his shoulder. "I had the most delicious soup. And bread. And the best butter and jam." It felt wonderful being in his arms again. She pressed her nose against his neck. Oh. _That Paul smell._ It did the most incredible things to her heart rate.

"Good. Sorry we weren’t on the same page about dinner.”

“It’s okay. The jet lag really messes with me sometimes.”

“I know the feeling.” His breath was warm next to her ear, his heart thudding against hers.

How was it that nothing had ever felt as comforting as this, since the last time he’d held her this way? It felt like her feet were floating on a cloud, five stories above London, her body wrapped in the warmth of his arms. Her arms were around his neck, and she had to clench her hands into fists to keep her fingers from coiling into his silky hair. They swayed together, Paul singing softly into her ear, “Would I want you, if I thought that you’d want me too? Does a baby cry? Yeah-yeah-yeah…” His soft tone spread heat throughout her body, his mouth only inches from her ear.

Paul's hand slid under her hair, his fingers resting on her neck. She let her eyes drift closed, allowing herself a few blissful seconds of pretense that this man was hers and she was his and they hadn't a care in the world. Paul's other hand slid to her waist and he pulled her harder against him. She felt his erection growing rigid against her belly. _God._ It would be so easy to be putty in his hands again. She had to keep reminding herself that as soon as she left there would be someone else in his arms. If she gave in to this feeling he'd only break her heart again.

She leaned back, meeting his dark, unfocused eyes. “I think your penis has forgotten we’re no longer dating.” Her voice came out shaky.

“My penis always did have a thing for you.” His eyes drifted downwards. “Your tits, though. Christ, Mari.”

“We need to talk.” Marisol said, dropping her arms from around his neck and taking a step back.

He smoothed his palm down the front of his blazer. “Aye, course we can. Let’s get out of here.”

 

"Where to, Guvnor?" the driver asked.

Paul recited a Mayfair address and the driver repeated it.

"That's right, crack on.”

“So tonight was…a bit crazy,” Paul said, settling back against the leather seat.

“Which part? The part where I got in a bar fight in the Ladies room over you? I don't even know what a Beatles’ slag is, but Pattie didn’t seem to care for it.”

“I was thinking about the random bloke with his tongue down your throat.”

“That didn’t happen.”

Paul chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. Marisol looked at that mouth and almost groaned with the memory of it on her lips, her skin, her breasts...

“You see, Mari, it’s confusing since you stopped answering my letters and phone calls months ago, and suddenly here you are in London, but with some bloke trailing you around.”

“He’s only a friend and has nothing to do with why I’m here.”

“Why _are_ you here, love?”

“Because I wanted to…” Marisol glanced at the back of the driver’s head. “…let’s talk about it when we get to your place.”

Neil had called ahead from from the club and arranged for police protection to get Paul into the flat, and two officers were waiting when they arrived to usher them safely into the building through at least two dozen squealing fans. Marisol ducked her head as flashbulbs popped. She ran for the door, hoping her picture wasn't going to end up in a magazine somewhere now that she and Paul were no longer even together.

Inside the flat, Paul led her through the living room and into the kitchen. "Fix yourself a drink, love, while I hit the loo."

Marisol opened the cupboards, looking for a glass to pour herself some water. The cupboards were even more empty than before. She opened the icebox. Empty. It was as if nobody even lived here. What did they eat?

She walked out of the kitchen, remembering the tiny room in the back of the flat that was Paul’s bedroom. She stood in the doorway and looked around. Something wasn’t right. The bed was made, but there didn’t seem to be anything else in the room. Paul’s record player, the stack of records beside it, the pile of books on the nightstand, his guitar…everything was gone. She dropped to her knees and peered under the bed where she knew Paul used to stow gold records and other awards. Nothing. She stood up and opened the top dresser drawer. The last time she was here she’d teased him about the stacks of paper money in the drawer, thousands in cash rolled up and wrapped with rubber bands. He’d said Brian sometimes paid them in cash and he had hardly any use for money, since Neil handled everything when they were on the road, and for big purchases they simply rang their accountant. The drawer was empty now.

She threw open the closet door. Paul’s clothes were gone, all but a scuffed pair of boots and a couple of shirts hanging at one end of the rod. She heard a noise and whirled around to see Paul watching her from the doorway, his mouth a tight line.

"You don't live here any more," Marisol said, her eyes wide.

He blew out a breath, looking around the empty room. "Aye. I was getting ready to tell you about that."

"I don't understand...why did we come back here and not wherever it is you're living now?“

He came into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “Come 'ere, Mari.”

Wordlessly, she dropped down beside him, searching his face, wondering why he wouldn't meet her eyes.

“You know how much I always hated living here." He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. "When you called last week, I had just moved into the attic of Jane's parents' house."

"You're living with Jane?" Her voice cracked. And then her heart cracked. _Oh Paul, you are so lost. You are gone from me forever._

He winced. "It isn't like that. I live in the attic next to her brother. With her parents and her younger sister in the house. It's understood that there is to be no nocturnal creeping around. It's just a place to live, with friends, that the fans don't know about yet."

"Are you in love with her?" Her voice was unnaturally high.

Paul sat hunched on the bed, his hands on his knees, staring at the floor. "Mari. When you and I split, I was rather miserable. Walking around under a lovesick rain cloud. I need to be in a relationship."

A cold sweat pricked at the back of her neck, and she started to shake. She took a couple of deep breaths to try to control it before standing up. "I should go. Yes. I need to go.”

He stood up. “You said you wanted to talk to me.” His eyes were pleading. “I don’t even know why you’re here.”

A door slammed somewhere in the flat, followed by the sound of voices.

Paul muttered an oath and shook his head before stepping into the hallway.

"What are you doing here?" Ringo asked.

"What do you think I’m doing here?” Paul said, scratching the back of his head and moving aside so that Ringo could see Marisol standing there, her fists clenched at her sides.

Ringo looked at Marisol, then back at Paul. His smile looked stiff. “Right. Well. We’re turning in. Mo’s a bit knackered.”

“Right. ‘Night then.”

Paul stepped back in the room and waited until he heard Ringo’s bedroom door close. He sighed. “They’re getting married. Quite soon.”

Marisol swallowed. “Oh. That’s wonderful.”

“It’s not by choice.” Paul lowered his voice. “Mo fell pregnant. Brian’s arranging it all very quickly. Just like John and Cyn. So there you go. Two down and two to go."

The room began to tilt and Marisol swayed. “Oh, no,” she said, bringing her hand to her mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”

She stumbled out of the room and into the bathroom, where she turned on the hot and cold taps as hard as the water would run in hopes that Paul wouldn’t hear her retching into the toilet.

When her stomach was empty, she rinsed her mouth with water and looked at her wan face in the mirror, smoothing her hair and wiping at the mascara smudges under her eyes. She felt untethered, teetering, as though a hole were opening up before her and she might fall in. There was no way she was telling Paul now about the baby. Not after the way he spoke about Ringo and Mo getting married whether they wanted to or not. And especially not after he told her he was living with Jane. She would do this by herself, with the help of her grandmother and her family and her friends.

Paul was standing outside the bathroom door. “Mari, are you ill? Is that why you wouldn’t drink tonight? Why you've seemed so...out of sorts?"

The sight of him, his brows knit together in a worried frown, knocked the wind out of her. In the back of her mind she’d accepted that he would have plenty of lovers after they broke up, but in a relationship already, in love with someone else? Her heart hurt so horribly she could barely pull in a full breath.

She slouched against the wall, facing him. “Yes, I’m ill. The food on the plane was...  I need to call Angela to come and get me.”

“Let me see you home.”

She shook her head firmly. “No.”

Paul reached out and held her gently by the shoulders. His eyes searched hers. “Will I see you again while you're here?"

She felt like she was watching everything about him and every move he made for the very last time. She let her eyes drift closed. "I think, under the circumstances, we should say goodbye."

"Ah. Well there's something we're good at. Practice makes perfect." He let his hands fall from her shoulders and took a step back, slumping against the opposite wall of the hallway. "I don't even know why you're here."

She searched her brain for some sort of excuse. All she wanted right now was to be away from him so she could breathe again without this ache in her chest. ”Maybe I needed to know you'd moved on, so that I could."

His head fell back against the wall. He stared at the ceiling a moment before looking back at her, his lips twisted. "I don't know what you mean by moved on. I can’t pretend I don’t have feelings for you. I’ve never stopped caring for you. If you lived in London, we would be together."

 _Until the next world tour_ , she thought. Or the next time he wanted her to join him somewhere and she couldn't make it and he found a quick replacement.

She couldn’t stop shaking. She felt so cold, but she didn’t want to shiver in front of Paul, so she held herself still. When she spoke, her voice was cold too. “It’s been what, three months? And you’re already living with another girl.”

He made a harsh, frustrated sound, but his voice was pleading. “I’m sorry, Mari. I wanted things to work out with us, I tried for a year to make it work.”

She had no answer. He had tried, they both had, but they were living two different lives. It had seemed so impossible for so many months.

“I miss you like mad, but you have to be willing to live in the same country with me.”

"I miss you too," she said, her voice weary, "but you have heartbreak written All. Over. You." She pushed herself away from the wall, heading into the kitchen to call Angela.

Paul caught up with her in the kitchen, positioning himself between Marisol and the telephone. He leaned against the counter and rested a hand on her waist, his eyes searching hers. “Stay here tonight. We’ll talk. We’ll talk all night if you want.”

“You know if I stay we won’t end up talking. We’ll end up…” His hand fell away as she took a step back. “This was a mistake. I should go.”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers, as if to keep himself from touching her again. “How long will you be here?”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Not long this time.”

“We’ll be in the studio tomorrow. Will you call me?”

“I don’t know, Paul,” she said, shaking her head.

“Please, Mari? We can go out for a proper dinner this time, I promise.” His face crumpled. “I do miss you, Mari. I’m so sorry you’re not in my life.”

She studied the floor, her eyes misting. Not trusting herself to speak, she merely nodded. When she didn’t answer, he closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. Her heart hammered, the way it always did when she was this close to him. Because even after everything that had gone on between them, she still loved him. His warm breath was ragged in her ear, and she knew if she spent another minute enveloped in his arms this way, she wouldn’t be able to maintain any sort of cage around her heart. _And he was living with Jane._

It took all of her willpower to push him away. She brought her hand to her mouth. “Please, Paul, I need to go. I feel like hell.” At least that much was true.

Her fingers shook as she dialed the number, but her voice was surprisingly calm when she gave Angela the Mayfair address. “I’ll be right there,” Angela said. God bless her. What would she do without a friend in London to get her through this night?

She hung up the phone and turned to see Paul watching her every move. He leaned forward and pulled her by the back of her neck so that their foreheads pressed together. “Tomorrow we’ll talk,” he whispered.

 

After she told Angela the whole story, between bouts of sobbing her heart out, they sat for a long time, just holding each other on the sofa, Marisol's head tucked under Angela's chin. 

At last Marisol lifted her head. "It hurts to be back."

"Does it hurt to be _there_? At home?"

Marisol nodded.

"You have to be _somewhere._ " 

Marisol heaved a heavy sigh. 

"I told you not to fall in love with him. Remember?" Angela said, with her own sigh.

"I'm an idiot," Marisol said, her eyes downcast, her fingers picking at the hem of her sweater.

"Is he in love with you?"

"It appears that he has moved on, and moved in with someone else."

"Don't you think he would want to be with you if he knew about the baby?"

"He would feel obligated."

"He'll likely phone here tomorrow looking for you."

"Tell him I've left."

Angela nodded and squeezed Marisol's hand. "I'm here for you. Things will look better in the morning."

Marisol closed her eyes, leaning back against the sofa, feeling completely cried out and cleansed, and somehow more at peace than she had been in months. The decisions were all made for her now. Paul had a new life with someone else, and Marisol had a baby to think about.

Tomorrow she would take the train to Sussex to tell her grandma about the baby and ask if she could stay with her. She would fly home to California for Christmas and pack up her things, and then she would be spending the next five months in England.

She fell onto the bed that night, sadly reflecting on the new tally of accomplishments:

Number of days since she'd last been held by Paul McCartney: 0

Number of days since she'd cried over Paul McCartney: back to 0

 

 


	38. Yesterday (Prologue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 37 is the next in chronological order but will eventually be the Prologue of the story.

September 1965

Marisol sits cross-legged on the floor of the living room of her sister Margo’s new home in Mill Valley, California. On the black and white television, a smiling, tuxedoed illusionist has just conjured his tenth dove out of thin air. The camera switches to Ed Sullivan, who promises he’ll be back with the Beatles after a word from Pillsbury. Marisol pushes her blonde fringe of bangs to one side and settles her three-month-old dark-haired daughter onto her lap with a warm bottle of milk.

Nine months have passed since she last saw any of the Beatles. She’s tried not to follow their careers, but since she doesn't live in an igloo at the top of the earth she can’t help but be aware of the major bullet points of their lives.

On the day Marisol’s daughter Melody was born, it was announced that Queen Elizabeth had included the Beatles in the birthday honors list, naming them as members of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. Quite an accomplishment for a group of young lads in their twenties from the northern provinces.

When Melody turned two months old, the Beatles were 3,000 miles away, performing in front of 56,000 fans at Shea Stadium, the largest outdoor concert in history. Paul’s sweaty, glowing face and giddy grin had been all over the news for at least a week afterwards.

A fortnight later, the band spent a week in Los Angeles looking for a bit of rest and relaxation. According to Marisol’s friend Donna, dozens of Beverly Hills brats hired helicopters to continually buzz the mansion where the Beatles were staying so they could take pictures of them sunbathing by the pool. The Beatles hid inside the mansion or underneath large umbrellas while helicopters hovered above. So much for peace and quiet.

Tonight, on Melody’s three month birthday, the Beatles are appearing on the Ed Sullivan show. Nineteen months ago Marisol watched them perform for the same television show, live in Miami Beach. Nineteen months. In some ways it feels like she’s aged ten years since then.

The television commercials end and Ed Sullivan is back on the screen. To a chorus of screams, the television host begins calling out the names of all four individual band members. Marisol's heart jumps as she hears his name and suddenly there he is. Paul. Shaking hands with the announcer, smiling at the screaming audience, strapping on his Hofner bass. Looking even more beautiful than she remembers. His straight, glossy dark hair is a bit longer, swept forward over his eyebrows and slightly to one side. In an expensively tailored black three piece suit and Cuban heeled boots he looks tall and fit, his face tanned and healthy. He looks bigger to her, more filled out, as if he’s grown from a skinny boy into his man’s body in just under a year. He acknowledges the crowd once more with a small flirty wave before nodding at his band mates and launching into their latest number one hit.

Seeing them on this stage takes her back to the first time Paul appeared on American television only a year and a half ago, how excited and happy he'd looked. Since then he and his band have conquered the American charts and finished two very successful world tours. Gone now is the skinny lad with the boyish, eager to please grins and bouncy dance moves. He looks comfortable in his own skin, sexier, more controlled. He moves confidently on stage, calm and sure of himself. Yet there is a new weight to his expression, a world weary cast to those downward sloping eyes.

She watches him lean in to share the microphone with John, their faces inches apart. She nearly groans, flattened by the sight of him and what he still does to her pulse rate. John and Paul exchange a smug little smile before Paul’s attention returns to the audience. It looks like someone in the crowd has caught his eye. His gaze continues to lock onto a spot on the balcony to his left.

 

  
“How’s it going?" Marisol’s older sister Margo drops down beside her and gives her knee a squeeze.

“Good, I guess." Marisol lets out a sigh. "The girls in bed?"

"They're worn out from the first week of Kindergarten." Margo regards the television for a moment, then shakes her head. "What a fucking great band they are."

"I know. The chemistry is amazing. Four best mates who have been playing together for eight years. They make it look effortless.”

The song ends and the camera zooms to Paul’s face, and he seems to lose focus while introducing the next song. His attention is still fixed on someone in the audience, to his left and high in the crowd. It takes John yelling “Heyyyyy!” at the crowd to startle Paul into finishing the introduction, and Ringo’s drums launch them into a loud, bluesy rock song in the style of Little Richard.

 

 

 

> Margo laughs suddenly. "Did you see that girl in the audience? She could be your twin. I was wondering who Paul was focusing on. He’s been making eyes at someone through the whole song.”

The camera pans again to the second floor balcony where a slim blonde grips the railing, violently shaking her messy hair, having the time of her life, hamming it up for the television camera and screaming 'JOHN! JOHN!'

  
"Ha! I can't see anything but hair and a really big mouth. Of course he's staring at her, she's acting even more insane than everyone else."

“She looks just like you, Mar. I know John’s blind as a bat without his glasses, but she sure has Paul’s attention.”

The song ends to enormous applause and screams and the theater darkens. The lead guitarist, George, steps to the microphone. "And now we'd like to carry on by doing something we've never done before, with a song from our new LP in England featuring only Paul, and the song is called Yesterday." As the lights come up, Paul is alone onstage with an acoustic guitar. His lips stretch in a brief grimace and he rolls his shoulders slightly before beginning to strum the guitar. Marisol notices a light sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

He's nervous without the band behind him, she realizes as he begins to sing. By himself under the spotlight, he looks as alone and vulnerable to her as a baby seal on an ice floe.

 

 

_Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though they're here to stay, Oh I believe in yesterday..._

The melody climbs and tumbles like a feather on a breeze, reflective and melancholy, and suddenly so familiar to her...

Marisol remembers the morning over a year ago when Paul propped an acoustic guitar on his knee and played through a beautiful melodic ballad that had come to him in his sleep. He had climbed out of bed and sat down at the piano and found the right keys and accompanying chords even before he was fully conscious. The melody was so beautiful he was sure he had nicked it from some other song he couldn’t recall in his conscious mind. But as he played it for Marisol and other friends and professional acquaintances, singing la-la-la on the melody in place of words, no one could recognize this song as anything other than his original creation. Yet the right words wouldn’t come.

She suddenly recalls the package that arrived from England a few weeks ago, a 45 rpm record with a note "I found the words. Please call me” followed by a telephone number and an address on Cavendish Avenue, St. John’s Wood, London. Without playing the record, Marisol had merely added it to the suitcase full of Paul memorabilia she couldn’t bear to look at.

Marisol notices she’s been holding her breath and exhales slowly, captivated by the haunting melody and plainspoken description of heartbreak as Paul continues to sing.

 _Suddenly, I’m not half the man I used to be,_  
_There’s a shadow hanging over me,_  
_oh I believe in yesterday._  
_Why she had to go, I don’t know, she wouldn’t say_  
_I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday._

Yesterday. That was it. The word described the melody perfectly. And the rest of the verse told of a man reflecting on his emotional isolation. Life and love had once seemed so easy, but something had happened he couldn’t take back, and everything changed. It was a tale of a shattered love affair.

“He found the words,” Marisol whispers.

She feels Melody squirm and pull away from the bottle and realizes she's been gripping her daughter too tightly. She loosens her hold and looks down. Melody's big brown eyes are blinking up at the television set. Other than her bright eyes tracking the movements on the screen, her tiny body is completely still, seemingly mesmerized by the singer and the haunting melody.

Marisol kisses the top of her daughter's soft dark hair. "I know sweetie. I can't stop looking at him either."

Margo regards her younger sister somberly. "When are you going to tell him?"

Marisol chews the inside of her cheek. "I'm working on it." (If working on it means picking up the phone once a month, waiting for a dial tone and slamming it down again with her heart pounding.)

She knows she has to tell him, the sooner the better. Melody’s father deserves to know he has a perfect daughter, and even though Melody has a huge family of people who adore her, no one can take the place of a father in her life. She has to tell him, for her daughter’s sake, and he can decide what sort of relationship he wants with her. _With them._

The song ends and Paul steps back from the microphone with a tight smile and a small bow. His performance, with acoustic guitar and pre-recorded strings, was pitch-perfect--sweet, stoic, heartbroken.

"He nailed it," Marisol whispers with a relieved sigh. Tears have sprung to her lower lids and she wipes at them hurriedly with the back of one hand. "Despite the roller coaster ride the last two years has been, Gogo, do you know I am still so terribly proud of him?"

Her sister leans close and rests her head on Marisol's shoulder. "And I am proud of YOU. Has it really been two years? Feels like only yesterday."

Marisol glances down at her perfect daughter and gathers her closer. "We don't believe in yesterday, do we Melody? We believe in tomorrow."

But as she watches Paul switch to his bass guitar and announce the next song, her mind goes back to the first time she saw him. No matter how often she looks back on that magical afternoon it is always with the same question: what if she'd been ten minutes later arriving at Mrs. A’s house? Ten minutes would have made all the difference. There are those critical junctures in life, when a seemingly trivial decision radically alters the course of our lives. It takes only a second really, and everything changes.

 


	39. Hello Little Girl

February 1966

The phone call had come in the middle of the night, as bad news often does. Marisol's Grandma Bellamy had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage while visiting her eldest son. She was being kept on life support until the family could arrive to say goodbye.

Everything else came to a halt as Marisol's family rushed to catch the next flight to London. They arrived sleep deprived and teary-eyed and joined their English relatives at the hospital for a heart wrenching goodbye to the family matriarch.

The next few days were a blur of funeral arrangements and reconnecting with uncles and aunts and cousins. Angela drove down from London, oohing and ahhing over Melody and providing a shoulder to cry on and an extra hand with the other small children.

The news of her grandmother’s death was a bitter shock to Marisol. She had hoped that Melody would have her Great Grandma Bellamy in her life for many years. She had even planned an extended visit for the summer months after Melody’s first birthday. The loss was devastating, but at the same time Marisol realized what a blessing it was that she had become pregnant with Melody in the first place, because of the precious time she’d spent with one of her favorite people on earth in the last year of her grandmother’s life.

In her fourth month of pregnancy Marisol had moved in with her grandmother in southern England, armed with a set of books on yoga and meditation and “joyful living” that Donna had insisted she read daily to “center yourself and stop thinking about that idiot.” Whether the meditation helped she couldn’t say, but the nausea of the early months passed and the next five months were an idyllic time with her grandmother.

They made gourmet meals, hiked the lovely English countryside, took long drives to the seashore, read stacks of novels and spent evenings sipping tea and watching The Saint and Coronation Street on the small black and white television set. For music they listened to Grandma’s classical albums: Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky, and to movie soundtracks and the British Light Program.

It helped that virtually the entire time she was in England, Paul and the Beatles were filming their second movie on location in the Bahamas and Austria. Marisol could take the train to London to roam the streets with Angela with no thought of running into Paul or Neil or anyone else she knew there.

Grandma Bellamy and Angela were responsible for making the last five months of her pregnancy the most peaceful period of her life. Maybe that’s why Melody turned out to be such a calm and contented baby.

  
The day of the funeral was cold and grey, but the rain held off throughout the gravesite service. By mid afternoon most of the mourners had gone. Only family members and a few of Margaret Bellamy's closest friends stood around the front room of her home, holding glasses of wine and murmuring in low voices. Marisol's parents and uncles and aunts were expecting an estate agent to drop in so they could begin putting Grandma Bellamy's affairs in order.

  
Something made Marisol turn and look out the front window, some sixth sense that she'd always had where Paul was concerned. Her eyes widened as she watched him climb from the powder blue Aston Martin, straightening his suit jacket before glancing towards the front door, his face grim. He lifted a hand to smooth his dark hair, the strands twisted and ruffled by the wind. The sight of him hit her like a physical blow. Melody's father. Here.

Her gaze fell on her daughter, sitting on the carpet in the middle of the room, stacking blocks with her favorite person in the world, sweet five-year-old Sophie. Paul was almost at the front door, and Marisol was overwhelmed by the urge to bolt. It had been more than a year since she’d seen him in the flesh, and she thought she had her emotions under control where he was concerned. She no longer cried over him. She was content working in the family business and taking care of her beautiful baby girl. Some days she went hours without Paul McCartney ever crossing her mind. So why was her heart pounding out of her chest at the sight of him?

So much had transpired in the last few days. The phone call from an aunt in the middle of the night, the frantic packing for a transatlantic flight with an eight-month-old infant, arriving in England too late to say goodbye. The heavy grief and regret. So many emotions, and so little time to plan what she would do if Paul somehow got the news and showed up.

Marisol snatched up her daughter and thrust her at Angela. "Get her out of here."

"Wha--?" Angela began, then noted the desperate look on Marisol's face. "Oh hell."

Marisol fled into the kitchen.

Margo was at the kitchen table with Lucy, talking quietly and nibbling on biscuits. Ramsay was under the table at their feet with his chin on his paws. Grieving. Margo took one look at Marisol's face and her lips compressed in a thin line. "He's here then? I suppose Neil told him."

"I can't deal with him, Margo. I haven't slept in three days, and—“

The doorbell rang and Ramsay barely registered the sound. The dog simply sighed and closed his eyes. He’d gotten used to the house filled with strangers over the last few days, and without his mistress he didn’t have anyone to protect.

Marisol’s eyes filled with tears for what felt like the hundredth time in less than a week. She snatched a pair of oversized black sunglasses from the counter and flew out the back door, past her father and her brother Marcus smoking on the patio, through the immaculately kept garden, and under the willow tree where she collapsed onto the bench, hugging her knees to her chest. She rubbed at her tears and tried to compose herself, but the sadness was overwhelming. This might be the last time she ever sat under this tree. Her daughter wouldn't play in this garden the way Marisol had as a child. Her daughter would never know her great grandmother.

Only a couple of minutes passed before she heard the back door open. There was a murmur of deep voices, Paul exchanging words with her father and brother. Marisol tried to regulate her breathing and push the tears away. With shaking hands she donned the sunglasses. It wasn’t surprising how quickly Paul found her, only that he was accompanied by Lucy, his hand cupping the back of her head, with Ramsay on their heels.

He stopped a pace in front of her. The air churned around them. His head shook from side to side.

She lifted her head to look at him but it was a mistake. She should have taken a deeper breath to prepare herself for the way he looked up close: crisp, put-together, undeniably gorgeous, but broken at the edges. Dark circles underneath his unsmiling eyes, his lips pale and tight.

“Marisol.” The way her name sounded on his tongue made a forgotten place inside her ache.

She waited, her pulse ticking in her throat. The sight of him. _Dear god_. Her chin quivered and she looked away.

He stared at her wordlessly for a long moment, then sat down and lifted Lucy onto the bench between them.

Marisol noticed his fingers shaking as he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She wished for the first time she smoked. Nicotine, weed, anything would be better than sitting here twisting her fingers together with her heart pounding out of her chest.

"You shouldn't smoke. It isn't good for you," Lucy told him.

"Who are you, the Surgeon General?"

Lucy shook her head, her eyes solemn. “My teacher says so.”

Paul grimaced, took another long drag and dropped the cigarette on the ground. He stretched his arm along the back of the bench. His fingers barely brushed Marisol's shoulder, causing her to flinch. He moved his hand back with a ragged sigh. “First of all, I’m very, very sorry. She was a beautiful, classy lady. I liked her a lot.”

Marisol closed her eyes against the tears and bit her lip.

"Second of all...Christ. Where do I even begin?"

There was a long pause, and when he spoke again his voice was so low and strained she could barely hear it above the rippling of the creek behind them. He bit off the words, his eyes hard. “Just tell me this, Mari. How in the bloody hell could you—“

Lucy tugged at his sleeve. “You’re not supposed to say that word. It’s naughty.”

“You’re right, Luce. Sometimes grownups say words they shouldn’t when they are very upset and disappointed with someone they thought they knew…” Paul voice trailed off and he gripped the back of his neck.

There they sat, Marisol dipping shaking fingers underneath the sunglasses to wipe at tears, Paul staring down at the ground, his knee jerking up and down, the little girl sitting silently between them.

“If heaven is a good place, why is everyone crying?” Lucy asked quietly after a few minutes.

Marisol drew her niece to her. “It’s a very good place, sweetie. We just miss her. We’re being selfish, that’s all.”

Paul straightened. “That’s exactly what it is. Selfish, and thoughtless, and…how long were you planning to keep this a secret from me? Her entire life?”

Swallowing the sob that rose in her throat, Marisol met his eyes. How could he be doing this, now, on this day, in front of an innocent five year old? Her eyes narrowed in a hostile glare. Not that Paul noticed. His shoulders were heaving in angry breaths, his lips thinned with fury.

“I called your grandmother not six months ago and asked after you, do you know that?" Paul continued to rant. "And she never said a word. Are you raising my child with that wanker you brought to the club last year? Is that why you've gone missing?”

Her mood swung to anger, and she jumped off the bench, taking Lucy with her by the hand. “You don’t have any right to question what I did, while you were busy with your London actress and all the other floozies you couldn’t keep your hands off of…” She would’ve continued, she was just getting started, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Margo striding across the garden.

Margo ducked beneath the branches of the willow tree and looked at each of them— Marisol’s chin trembling with tears on her cheeks, Paul white with fury, Lucy wide-eyed, clutching at her aunt’s hand. Margo shook her finger inches away from Paul’s face. “You do not have the right to do this, on the day we buried our grandmother, or any other day. You are not the injured party here. You need to go.”

Paul got to his feet. He sighed heavily, his shoulders hunched forward. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry for your loss. I don’t mean to make things harder for any of you. I’m just trying to understand how in the—“

“You don’t need to understand," Margo interrupted sharply. "It is what it is. Sometimes people do the best they can. I’m not going to stand by while you interrogate my little sister who has been through hell the past couple of years, partly because of you.”

Paul looked as if he’d been struck, but Margo wasn’t finished. “Deal with it, move on, forgive each other, or go away and file a lawsuit or whatever you think you have to do to be able to sleep at night.”

Margo stared at him a long beat before turning to Marisol. “Do you want me to send Marcus to get him out of here?”

Marisol shook her head. "It's okay, Gogo."

With a final glare at Paul, Margo marched back across the garden, with Lucy by the hand.

“Christ,” Paul muttered. “As if I couldn’t kick Marcus’s ass.”

“Is that what you took away from that entire conversation? A threat to your manhood?”

They drowned in a heavy silence until Paul finally looked away. He lowered himself onto the bench and dropped his head in his hands.

Marisol stood hugging herself, her throat tight, looking up at the willow branches, at the sky, anywhere but at Paul.

Finally he looked up. “Sit down.”

She sat on the bench as far away from him as she could.

“Your sister's right. I'm not the victim. Christ. I must be the most self-absorbed asshole in the world. It never even crossed my mind you could be pregnant.” His voice was so low she had to strain to hear him.

He reached across the bench, gently removed her sunglasses, folded them and put them in her hand. “Look at me.”

Her heart lurched madly as she finally met his eyes, and she tried not to see him. It was too much. His eyes, his mouth, his voice. She’d been so wrong. She wasn’t over him yet. Clearly she never would be.

He regarded her for a moment before speaking. “I’m so sorry, Mari, for everything. I can’t imagine why you thought you couldn’t tell me.”

Not trusting herself to speak, she merely nodded.

He examined her, his face softening. When he spoke again, his voice was tender, almost a murmur. “Key West?"

She nodded, blinking away. "My luggage...the pills..."

”Right. I was so in love with you then it made me reckless."

She swallowed. That was the last thing she'd expected to hear him say. "There was a lot of weed and alcohol floating around, as I remember."

He ignored that. “Is that why you came back in December? Did you want us to be together...for the baby?"

"No...I don't know what I wanted, I just thought you should know."

His eyes widened with a flash of insight. "And you didn't tell me...because of Jane."

He sat with his hands between his knees, deep in thought. “Where’s the other dog?”

“What?”

He tilted his head toward Ramsay, lying on the ground across from them, his chin on his paws, his eyes half-heartedly flicking between them from beneath lowered brows, his face a textbook picture of canine grief. “Your grandma, she had two dogs.”

Marisol shook her head. “Gone.”

“Cor. What a day.”

He stood up and looked at her. "Well, Mari, I think it's time you introduce me to my daughter."

Paul strode confidently back through the house, speaking with Marisol’s relatives, offering his sympathies. In the living room he took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. He stopped in front of Angela who was holding a fretful Melody.

Without a word, Paul took the baby from Angela and walked out of the room. Every head turned and watched him. Stunned, Marisol stumbled after him, thinking for a moment he was going to walk right out the front door, until he turned in the foyer and started up the stairs.

With Melody on his shoulder, he went into the room that had been Marisol’s.

He stood looking out the window, patting Melody’s back. The baby continued fussing, rubbing her face into Paul’s neck. “Is she hungry?”

“She’s tired.”

“Does she need to be changed?”

“No.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and stood Melody up in his lap so he could look into her tear-stained face. "Hello little girl," he said. "I'm your daddy, and I will always be there for you.”

From the doorway, Marisol brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

Melody whimpered and chewed on her fist.

"She's teething," Marisol said, when she finally found her voice.

Paul brought the baby to his shoulder and rubbed her tiny back, singing a quiet lullaby, something old and Irish sounding that Marisol had never heard before.

It was like turning off a switch. Melody grew still, thumb in her mouth, head curled into his neck as if she knew he was hers. Paul kicked off his shoes and reclined on the bed with Melody on his chest, humming quietly. The baby was asleep in minutes.

Marisol stood with her hands on her hips, unsure what to do. She didn’t want to leave him here with her daughter. She still felt like he might run out the door with her.

Paul’s eyes were closed, his hands stilled on her daughter’s tiny back.

Quietly she closed the door and moved into the room. After a few minutes, she stretched out on the other side of the bed, almost afraid to breathe, watching her daughter sleeping on her father’s chest. This was her first opportunity to really look at him without him staring back at her with his accusing, hurt eyes.

The outline of his profile was lovely but remote, like a coastline viewed from the window of an airplane. His face looked older. He wasn’t the boy she’d given her heart to two years ago. That boy was gone. New tiny lines had appeared at the corners of his eyes. The left side of his upper lip was swollen underneath what looked like a recent scar, making him look like a beautiful prize fighter. He looked so much like Melody it took her breath away.

Her tired eyes burned and she closed them, unable to look at the two of them any longer. In all her ideas of how this first meeting would go, she’d never imagined he would be this furious with her. She’d only been trying to do what was best for their child. Was Julian’s life better than Melody’s? She imagined he rarely saw his father, and when he did, John was probably distant and angry, considering himself trapped by Cynthia and their son. Melody had an extended family who doted on her. There was nothing missing in her life...except for her father. She bit back a sob, squeezing her eyes tightly closed.

Paul’s breathing began to deepen, and before long she matched her breaths to his and let herself drift off.

She didn’t know what woke her, but she opened her eyes to find Paul watching her sleep. As her eyes focused she thought she saw a look of pain flicker across his features before his eyes turned steely and hard.

The room had darkened, a light rain was falling, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

  
He was turned toward her on his side, the baby sleeping on her stomach between them.

“What’s her name?” he asked quietly.

“Melody.”

“Melody McCartney?”

She swallowed. “Melody Hemingway.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“That’s the first thing that’s going to change.” He flipped onto his back, stared at the ceiling. “When did you plan on leaving England?”

“My flight is the day after tomorrow.”

“That’s the second thing that’s going to change.”

“Paul, you can’t suddenly show up and start bullying me—“

“Bullying you? Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice grew loud and the baby stirred.

Marisol placed her hand on Melody’s back, shushing him.

He lowered his voice, but the anger punched through, loud and clear. “Bullying you? Am I the one who kept your daughter from you the last—“ He rubbed a hand across his face. “Fuck. I don’t even know how old she is. The only thing I know is that Neil phoned last night and said the girl I used to love has a baby who looks dead like me.”

“Eight months,” Marisol whispered.

He turned his head to look at her, his eyes cold. “I’ll keep her for the next eight months then, how about that? You can have her back next year.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, even though she knew he was bluffing. He was angry, but he wasn’t heartless. His expression softened when he saw her tears and his eyes fluttered closed. “Mari. I didn’t come here to hurt you. Even though I think you deserve it.” He opened his eyes and looked at her gravely, his words like arrows piercing her heart. “But make no mistake. I’m going to be part of my daughter’s life from now on. Do you understand me?”

What could she possibly say? He had every right. All she could do was nod.

“I want my father to meet her before you leave. I’ll have to phone him first and try to explain this. He doesn’t like surprises.” He blew out a breath. “That means you’ll come to London with me tonight so we can leave for Liverpool first thing in the morning.”

“I don’t…I can’t just…”

He stopped her with a look. “Yes, you can. It’s the very least you can do. Go downstairs and tell your family you’ll be staying with me until my father has a chance to meet his granddaughter.”

Marisol swung her legs off the bed, filling her lungs with a deep calming breath. Paul was back in her life and in Melody’s life, and life as they knew it would never be the same.

 

 


	40. Each One Believing That Love Never Dies

“Looks like the rain chased off a few of the gate birds," Paul said as he drove onto a quiet street lined with stately mansions. “You’ll want to cover her face or she’ll be photographed."

Marisol clutched her daughter to her chest and wrapped her raincoat around both of them. Paul turned into the driveway of a three story mansion completely surrounded by a high brick wall, with a menacing looking front gate covered in thick iron sheeting. He punched in a code and the gates slid open. “We’re in a rush," he said to the girls clamoring around the car. "Go on home now, and I promise I'll come out tomorrow.”

“She looks like a tart!” Marisol heard one of the girls yell as she and Paul ducked inside the house.

“Are there always fans at the gate?” she asked.

“Every day so far.” Paul tossed his keys onto a table. “May it always be so. I have bills to pay.” He left her suitcase and Melody’s diaper bag in the foyer. “Ready for your tour?” he asked, flicking on lights as they went from room to room.

In the dining room an enormous clock hung over a polished dining table covered with an antique lace cloth and a mountain of unopened mail.

“How do you know I didn’t write to you daily?” Marisol nodded at the piles of mail.

“Because I know you.” Paul reached for Melody.

He led her into the living room, sighing at the sound of a loud buzz. “What?" he barked into a speaker.

“What time will you come out tomorrow?” a girl yelled. “I have a prezzie for you, Pol!” another one screamed.

“Around noonish. Don’t push the buzzer any more tonight, love. And stop screaming.”

“I love you Polllll!” They could hear the screams all the way from the street.

He rolled his eyes and switched off the intercom.

The living room was decorated with plush carpeting, comfortable furniture and an open fireplace. Between the two sofas stood a coffee table with a tea tray and a stack of art books. The walls were lined with modern art, and sculptures were displayed on the mantel and on decorative antique tables throughout the room.

From the spare flat in Mayfair to all this in a year. Marisol couldn't believe her eyes. “Do you live alone?”

“I have a housekeeper. It’s her day off. Why do you ask?”

“Because this place is huge. It's like a grand family home.”

“I had some decorating help." Paul carried Melody through the spacious, well-appointed kitchen and into a cozy sitting room that looked out over a large back garden. "But we..." He paused, correcting himself. "I picked out most of the furniture myself."

Marisol tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her heart at his slip. The 'we' could only mean he and Jane. No doubt he had plenty of help. _From Jane._  

“This is my favorite room.” He made a circuit of the sitting room, switching on a large color television with the volume off and turning on a radio before slumping onto a dark green tufted velvet sofa. He turned Melody around in his lap. “There’s your mum,” he said, pointing at Marisol. Melody cooed and gazed up at him instead, sucking at her fingers.

“She’s probably hungry, I should warm a bottle.”

Paul’s attention was on a news telecast about an anti Vietnam war demonstration held in London at the U.S. Embassy. He glanced up. “You always warm it?”

She shrugged. “Don’t have to, but she likes it.”

Melody seemed content, so Marisol wandered into the kitchen to look for a sauce pan. The cupboards were full of dishes and pots and pans. “Nice job, Jane,” she muttered under her breath. She retrieved a bottle from the diaper bag, noticing on her way back through the house that Paul already had an impressive collection of artwork on the walls. It felt odd how little she knew about him now. In just over a year he’d become the owner of this huge mansion and furnished it with the help of his beautiful girlfriend. She wondered if he was happy here. _With her._

As the bottle heated, she looked out the window into the long garden that ended in a grove of trees, surprised to see so much greenery this close to downtown London. The area seemed removed from the city, almost like a village, but Paul said it was only a short walk to the recording studio. She approached the french door and gasped with surprise. A large White Rabbit stared at her from one side of the terrace. Behind him was a Mad Hatter, and several other characters from _Alice in Wonderland_. She opened the door for a better look and a cat and three kittens darted across the threshold.

“Paul? Do you have cats?” she shouted above the mewing of four hungry felines.

“Looks that way.” He stood at the doorway, Melody on his hip, all four cats winding around his ankles. He squatted down so that Melody could touch the furry tails flicking by. “This one’s Thisbe,” he explained to the baby. “And the little ones are Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

Melanie made a crowing noise as a tail slid across her fingers.

“You named a cat Jesus?”

Paul looked up. “You have something against cats?”

She snorted a laugh. “That’s not the point.”

“Would you mind feeding them, love? It’s under the sink. We feed them on the terrace.” He straightened and walked outside with Melody, holding open the door for the cats to follow.

 _We feed them on the terrace_. Now she was feeding Jane’s stupid cats.

When she came outside with the cat food, Paul had Melody tucked inside his jacket and was standing in front of the White Rabbit, discussing the major plot points of _Alice in Wonderland_.

He turned and smiled when he saw her watching.

 _And she had confirmation_. His killer smile could still make her heart jump around in her chest.

“Our Kid got me these sculptures for a housewarming gift.”

She was momentarily confused until she remembered he referred to his brother as ‘Our Kid.’

He took a step closer. “You’ll need to meet Mike.”

She took an involuntary step back. She wasn’t ready to be this close to him, but she couldn’t look away. The sight of him, his calm brown eyes assessing her, with Melody peeking placidly out at the world from beneath his jacket, was unnerving. She shivered and hoped he wouldn’t notice. He did.

“You’re cold.”

“Her bottle is probably ready,” Marisol said, turning and dashing up the stairs to the kitchen.

 

At the kitchen table, Paul held Melody on one knee while Marisol opened a jar of baby food applesauce. “If you’re going to feed her, you better take off your jacket. She’s not a dainty eater.”

He switched Melody from one arm to the other while he shrugged out of his jacket. Marisol went behind his chair to help him, and she had to resist the urge to bury her face in the collar of the coat before she draped it across another chair. She knew exactly how it would smell.

He fed Melody small spoonfuls of applesauce while Marisol hovered nearby holding a damp cloth and a spouted cup full of milk.

Melody flinched each time the wash cloth came toward her mouth. “I bet after your fourth kid you won’t be wiping their mouth with every bite,” Paul said, twisting around in the chair so that Marisol couldn’t easily reach them.

“I bet after my fourth kid I won’t be doing a lot of things.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder and they shared a laugh.

Marisol plopped down in the chair next to them and rested her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm, watching the two of them. It was hard to believe they were laughing together already. It was hard to believe she was laughing at all. That’s the way it had always been when she was around Paul. He could distract her and coax a laugh out of her even when her heart was aching over her grandmother. Their relationship had always been fun and easy. It was the constant goodbyes that had made it so impossible.

Melody refused more applesauce by sticking out her tongue, and Paul decided to make sure she knew how to blow raspberries. _Lovely._

After a few minutes, he twisted back around in his chair and looked at her.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” she said, feeling like she should explain why she’d been staring at him.

He nodded, kissing the top of Melody’s head. “Well, you wouldn’t have, since we’ve never had a baby together 'til now.” He continued watching her, a little smile curving his lips.

“No, I mean, the gorgeous house and everything…you’re so…domesticated.”

He looked pleased. “You like it? The house?”

“Of course.” She took a deep breath and asked the question she’d been wondering about for the past hour. “Are you happy?”

His eyes roamed her face as he considered the question. “Getting there,” he said quietly. “Are you? Happy?”

Her breath caught. “Most of the time.” She pushed the cup of milk his way and walked to the stove, leaning against it and trying to clear her head. If he expected her to stay in this house with him for any length of time, she was going to have build a cage around her heart again. He still made her heart race, and he was taken. She wondered where Jane was. For all she knew, Jane could waltz in the door at any minute. Wouldn’t that be cozy.

“Are you hungry?” Paul asked. “Mrs. Kelly left a chicken pie.”

“No, my schedule is so out of whack I haven’t felt much like eating.” She tested the warmth of the milk on the inside of her wrist. “She’ll probably fall asleep for the night after this bottle.”

Paul got to his feet. “I’ll show you the upstairs guest room.”

He switched on a light at the top of the stairs. “Come ‘ere, I want to show you something.” He handed the baby to Marisol and showed them into the master bedroom. Walking to the king sized bed, he flicked a switch on the wall and stared at the curtains. Nothing happened. With a muttered oath, he flicked the switch back and forth several times. “None of this shit works half the time,” he said, shaking his head and leading the way out of the room and across the hall to the guest bedroom.

He pushed the queen bed against one wall and built a barrier of pillows so Melody wouldn’t roll off the bed. “Will she be all right?”

Marisol nodded. “I’ll probably be joining her soon. I’m beat.”

“Fancy an adult beverage first?”

She smiled. “Do you have wine?”

“Be right back.”

 

Melody was asleep before she was halfway through the bottle. Marisol laid her carefully in the center of the bed and stood at the door watching her sleep. She'd heard a phone ring, and the occasional sound of Paul's voice, and he hadn’t returned with the wine. She stood on the landing, listening. There was a clattering noise, but it came from upstairs. She took the stairs to the top floor. At one end of the hallway a huge room overlooking the front drive had been turned into a studio of sorts. There was a spinet piano, a variety of guitars, a hifi system and an enormous tape deck. Bookshelves filled with record albums lined one wall. Another wall featured a score of gold records.

Across the hallway was a closed door. Marisol tapped on it, waited a few seconds and turned the handle. This room was empty except for an easel and a table filled with paint supplies. The window that faced the garden was open, curtains billowing in a stiff breeze. She walked to the window to close it and noticed a jar of paint brushes on the bare wood floor that must have rolled off the window ledge. She knelt to gather the brushes, and as she did so she noticed a half dozen canvases leaning against the walls. Airy, abstract landscapes, playful portraits in earth tones, a few beach scenes in dynamic colors. She knew Paul was artistic, he used to always doodle caricatures, and musical talent usually went hand in hand with an artistic bent. But these were better than she would have expected. She stood and placed the brushes on the table and crossed the room for a closer look.

And her heart stuttered.

Hanging on the wall across from the window was a painting of her face. It looked like it was painted from a photograph Paul had taken of her in Scotland, when she was lying on the ground in a field of flowers seconds after they'd made love. He’d captured her face perfectly, but her eyes were different somehow…

She stood there staring at it, stunned.

 

 

“No one’s meant to be in here.”

She jumped, pressing her hand to her chest at the sound of his voice. “Not even me?” she asked.

“Especially not you.”

He walked up behind her. “I never was happy with the nose, but I finally said fuck it, you know? Close enough.”

“Y-you…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You painted me? When did you do this?”

“I dunno, sometime this past year.”

“Why?”

He arched a brow. “Pardon?”

“Why did you paint this picture of me in Scotland?”

He cocked his head and examined the painting. "Not sure I meant to do it really. I had the urge to paint, and the next thing I knew, there you were.”

“My eyes…why do I look so sad?”

He slid his gaze from the painting to her face and studied her for a moment. “You tell me.”

She blew out a sigh. Maybe that was the way he remembered her, always worried about the next looming goodbye.

“My mother is right,” she said, to change the subject. “My hair really is a damn mess.”

He reached down and touched her hand so softly it was as if he expected her to bolt. He gripped two of her fingers and gave them a soft tug.

“Let's go get that wine.”

 

Two glasses of chilled white wine rested on top of the black spinet piano in the music room. Paul handed one to her. “Have a seat,” he said, pulling out the bench and arranging himself in front of the keyboard.

Marisol took a long sip of her wine and then another. What a day. She needed to drink until her head buzzed and then fall into bed. Maybe after a good night of sleep she'd be able to handle being this close to Paul again. She perched on the bench beside him with her back to the keyboard, careful not to touch him. She kept an eye on the door, listening with one ear for Melody in case she cried out in her sleep.

Paul seemed to read her mind. “Is she a good sleeper?”

She nodded. “We have the twins over a lot after during the afternoons and we don’t keep things quiet for her. She’s learned to sleep through noise.”

"Does she ever have bad dreams?"

Marisol thought a moment. "How would I know? She can't exactly tell me."

Paul played a series of quiet chords. "Wonder what a baby would have nightmares about. She's too young to care about being naked in public and she doesn't even know about monsters yet."

"It would probably be filled with giant white rabbit faces."

They looked at each other and laughed.

He played a gentle, otherworldly melody that she assumed was his original composition. “That’s beautiful. What is it?”

“Nature Boy. You know it.”

She recognized the poignant last line when Paul began to sing.

“…the greatest thing…you’ll ever learn… is just to love and be loved in return.”

He finished with a flourish, crossing his hands over and over as he moved up the keys to a final chord.

From the street they heard cheering and clapping and a few screams of “Pol! Pol! I love you Pol!”

Paul swung his legs out from under the piano, swearing under his breath. “Go on home girls!” he yelled out the window before slamming it shut and drawing the curtains closed.

He sat back down at the piano. “Any requests?”

“Surprise me." She sipped her wine and listened to him entertain himself at the keyboard.

“Listen to this one.” He played a series of strident chords. “Miss Daisy Hawkins, picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been…la la la la…” I can’t think of much more so I keep putting it away. The theme loneliness keeps coming to me, you know?”

“Do you still write with John?”

“Not as much now. He lives out in the country with the others. It was easier when we were forced to be together on the bus every night.”

“But you stayed in the city.”

“Sure. There’s so much going on. So much art and music happening. I don’t want to miss anything.” He turned to her with a half smile.

She watched him run his tongue over one of his front teeth and gasped. “What have you done to your tooth?” she blurted out.

He brought a hand to his mouth, rubbing the jagged bottom of his tooth with his thumb. “Is it that obvious?”

“It’s half gone,” she said with surprise.

“I hit a rock and flipped over a moped. On Boxing Day.”

“Is that what happened to your lip?”

He rubbed idly at the scar. “Yeah. I went to my cousin Bett’s house and she screamed when she saw me covered with blood. She called a friend who’s a doctor and he stitched me right there in the kitchen, no anesthetic.” He seemed quite proud of this fact. He lifted his hair and showed her another scar over one eyebrow.

“Why didn’t you go to the hospital, for god’s sake?” Then she had a realization. “Were you high?”

He scoffed loudly. “What? No. Jesus.” He turned back to the piano. “Whatever, Mari. Think what you like.”

She drained her glass and stood up. “Thanks for the wine. I need to get some sleep.”

Paul nodded. “I’ll bring up your suitcase.”

 

In bed with her daughter sleeping beside her, Marisol couldn’t stop thinking about the picture Paul had painted of her. What had possessed him to paint it, and to hang it on the wall of his home that he probably shared with Jane, although they hadn’t had any contact for more than a year?

She stared through the darkness at the ceiling, listening to the sounds Paul made moving about the house: footsteps on the stairs, a door closing, water running. The guest bedroom faced the street, and there was an occasional shout or giggle from the girls at the gate. Apparently they stayed there around the clock, like love-starved orphans, monitoring Paul’s every move. Thunder rolled in the distance and a soft rain began to fall. She closed her eyes and forced her mind to let go.

The thunderstorm was directly overhead when she awoke with a start, sensing someone in the room.

"Sshh, it's only me," Paul whispered. She felt him leaning over her and sensed him resting a gentle hand on Melody's back. "She sleeping right through this?" His breath was minty. He'd brushed his teeth before coming in here to check on them. That was so Paul.

"Mm hmm," she mumbled.

"Wish I could." He straightened, then sighed. "Are you cold?"

She looked up as a flash of lightning lit the room. He was wearing pajama bottoms and no shirt. That chest. She had kissed every inch of it, more than once. Those flat nipples. That little treasure trail of hair from his navel disappearing into his pajama pants that hung low on his hips and tied with a drawstring. She nearly groaned. It was like every sexual memory she had was wrapped up in that body. There hadn't been anyone else since she'd been with him. A million years ago. She squeezed her eyes closed.

"I'm fine."

"I was thinking you might not want to be alone. I know it was a rough day for you."

She opened her eyes as another flash of lightning lit up his face. He was staring intently down at her.

"I'm not alone." She turned away from him, curling herself toward her sleeping daughter.

He lifted the covers, and the bed dipped with his weight. She felt him stretch out beside her, then rearrange the covers back over her shoulders.

Every muscle in her body tensed, waiting. If he touched her...if he kissed the back of her neck or pulled her against him...if he whispered that he wanted her to join him in his bedroom...there was no way she would say no. She knew how good it was when they were together. Her toes curled with the memory of it.

There was a loud clap of thunder and Marisol winced. "I wish my grandma wasn't alone," she whispered. "On a night like this. I wish I knew she was okay."

"Of course she's okay," Paul said confidently. "She's with all the people she loved who've already gone on."

"Do you really believe that?"

He blew out a long sigh. "You have to, don't you." He shifted toward her, reached across her body to where her hand was resting on the pillow and slid his fingers through hers.

She held her breath, waiting for his next move. She expected him to say something. Something sexy and cute that would cause her to turn in his arms and bury her face in his neck. She expected him to brush her hair to the side and leave a trail of kisses across her shoulders and down her back. Instead, she heard his breathing change and realized he was falling asleep. He hadn't even wanted sex, she realized. He was just being Paul.

She knew him well enough to know it would drive him crazy to sleep alone in his room with the two of them in here. Like a curious kid, he couldn't stand to be in his bed if there was something going on in the next room. And right now, Marisol and Melody were the thing that was going on in the next room.

Or maybe he had actually wanted to comfort her. He was an empathetic person, and he knew how much she loved her grandmother. Whatever his reasons for climbing in bed with her, right now he was sound asleep with his arm heavy across her breast and his fingers laced with hers and his breath warm on the back of her neck. And she was wide awake, aching in ways and places she'd forgotten could ache. She knew without a doubt that if he had come into the room wanting to have sex with her, she would totally have let him. A lot. It was suddenly all she could think about.

_And he had a girlfriend._

They would have to have set some ground rules tomorrow. Otherwise, it was going to be a long few days. She lay there in the dark, listening to Paul softly snoring, counting seconds between claps of thunder and lightning until the storm moved away and she finally fell into a dream-filled sleep.


	41. Remember that I'll Always Be in Love with You

Marisol awoke disoriented after a fitful sleep, blinking around the room in confusion. Music was playing somewhere, and girls shouted from the street. And Melody was not in the bed next to her. She sat up with a start, imagining Jane arriving while she slept and leaving with Paul and her baby, going to Liverpool without her. She sprinted out of the room and down the stairs.

The living room was empty. She raced into the kitchen. A middle aged woman turned from the kitchen sink, sweeping her grey eyes over Marisol.

Marisol took a step back, conscious of appearing in her night clothes in front of a stranger in Paul’s house. She clutched at the neckline of her gown. “Oh. Hi, I was looking for Paul?”

“He had his brekkie an hour ago. Will ye be needing summat?” the woman asked, frowning.

"Thank you, no. Where is he?"

"I reckon ye’ll see him in the music room."

Out of breath from racing back up three flights of stairs, Marisol clutched at the doorframe of the attic room. Paul was sitting at the Spinet piano with Melody on his lap, plucking out a tune. An empty bottle of milk was on the floor beside them.

She stood there catching her breath, watching her daughter bang both hands onto the keys with a shriek. Paul kissed the top of the baby’s head and Marisol’s heart lurched at the sight.

She must have made a sound that caused Paul to turn and notice her. “She’s coming along quite promising on the piano, Mamacita.”

He swung his legs to the other side of the piano bench, facing her. “I’ve spoken with my Dad. He doesn't want us making the journey with the babe,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. “He took the express train, with my stepmom and stepsister. They’ll be here by noon, and they might stay through Friday.”

“I'll miss my flight…” she began, then stopped herself. It was clear she wouldn’t be taking that flight. She slid down the doorframe and sank onto the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. She was at his mercy for the next few days at least, until she could figure out how to compromise with Paul and get her life back.

“Ma ma ma ma,” Melody said from Paul’s lap, reaching her arms to Marisol.

“Da da da da,” Paul corrected her, but he kissed the top of her head again and set Melody on the floor, smiling as he watched her crawl across the carpet to Marisol.

She picked up her daughter and kissed her cheek, breathing in the milky sweet smell of her. She felt her diaper, noting it was dry. “You changed her?”

“Of course.”

“And fed her?”

“Mari, come on. I’m her father. I do know how to take care of her basic needs, don’t I?”

“And you came in and took her out of bed while I was sleeping.”

“Yeah, you were out like a light.”

"You're saying I didn't hear her wake up?"

"You dragged a pillow over your head."

Marisol scoffed. "Did not."

"You did." He smiled as Melody made a crowing sound. "She covered her ears when you cried, din't she, Cheerios?"

"Why do you call her that?"

Paul pointed to a glass bowl lying upside down on the carpet. "She ate a whole bowl of Cheerios and threw the bowl across the room when it was empty. Girl has a temper like her mother when she's hungry."

“You should have woken me. I was terrified when I found her gone. I thought...”

“You thought what? What could happen to her in my home? You're going to need to get used to sharing. New rules."

"Ok Mr. New Rules. I have a few rules of my own."

She took a deep breath. Paul thinking he could land in her bed in the middle of the night was a problem. It had stirred up all sorts of feelings that she wasn't expecting to deal with. Between the time he crawled into bed with her and the time she awoke, she'd had a slightly disturbing dream involving nudity and an extremely accommodating Paul McCartney.

"About last night."

"Yes?"

"No more crawling into my bed at night like we're still together."

His brow wrinkled. "Why not? Nothing happened."

She narrowed her eyes at him. There he sat with that innocent, puzzled look on his face. He was going to make her spell it out.

"It's like chocolate chip cookies, Paul. I know they're bad for me, and I'll hate myself for it, but when I see them and smell them and touch them, I just want to stuff my face full of them, all day long."

He arched a brow. "All day long?"

"Even though my brain knows it would be the worst idea in the history of worst ideas, it's hard to resist when the cookies are right under my nose."

He tilted his head to the side, his mouth curving in a smile. "I see." He scratched his unshaven jaw. "Well. Your cookies smell pret-ty damn good to me too. In case you were wondering."

Ignoring that, she shifted her restless daughter, letting her bounce up and down on her toes. "So. Rule number one. No more creeping into my bed at night."

"That's gonna be a tough one,” he said, still smiling. What's rule number two?"

"I don't know yet, but I'll think of something.”

“My door is always open for your comments and concerns, and I will take your suggestion under consideration.”

He stood, stretching his arms overhead. "Last night after the storm, I was lying in bed with the two of you and I heard a blackbird singing away, in the dead of night, like it thought it was morning. I took my tape recorder outside. Listen to this."

He fiddled with a tape player until the sound of a bird singing filled the room. "Crazy. Huh? Singing away like it was morning." He turned off the tape, grabbed a guitar and sat on the floor in front of her.

"Do you ever sleep?" Marisol asked.

"Since I got a recent phone call from Mr. Aspinall, not much," he said. "I seem to have a lot on my mind."

He strummed a few chords and began to sing. "Blackbird singing in the dead of night...na na na na na..."

Melody lunged for freedom. The moment Marisol placed her on the floor, she scooted to the guitar and reached a hand up to Paul's knee. He stopped playing. "Amazing, isn't it? She's like a blank slate, waiting for us to fill her up with life experiences." He shifted the guitar and scooped Melody up in one arm, settling her between his legs so she could pat the body of the guitar.

"I bet you've never seen anyone play guitar before, have you baby girl?"

"You would win that bet," Marisol said. "I have sworn off musicians."

He frowned. "That's no life for my daughter. She needs her days filled with music."

“She has music. I had a record player in the delivery room. Margo was with me, playing nothing but Billie Holiday. The moment she was born, “God Bless the Child” started to play."

Paul listened to her recollection with a wistful expression on his face. "That's a good omen."

He held Melody's chubby foot in his palm. "Look at this. Ever see anything so perfect in your life?"

Marisol smiled. "I made a cast of her foot."

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I made a mold of her foot and poured a plaster into it and painted it peach." Her eyes went from her baby's face to Paul's. "She has your complexion."

Paul dipped his head to look at the baby's face just as Melody squealed and threw her hands in the air, slinging a fist into his eye. "Ow shit," he said, rubbing at his eye. "She has your wicked right hook."

Melody leaned her head back, peering up at him.

Paul pursed his lips in an exaggerated pout and pretended to cry.

"Umm...you don't wanna let her think you're..." Marisol started to warn him as Melody's chin quivered. In seconds the baby was full on crying.

"Aw shit." Paul put the guitar on the carpet and bounced Melody on his lap. "I didn't mean it!"

"She cries whenever she sees anyone crying," Marisol said over the sound of Melody's wails.

"She's compassionate! At eight months! Wait till my dad hears about this!"

Marisol smiled. She hadn't realized how bonding it could be, the two of them taking pride in the way Melody looked and the simplest things she did, because she was a part of each of them. She wondered if her parents had ever felt this way.

Paul held Melody up and sang into her face: "pretty pretty pretty pretty Peggy Sue, my Peggy, my Peggy Sue..." Melody stopped crying and stuck a fist in her mouth, staring fixedly at him.

"That's right, your daddy has a way with the ladies. Works every single time." He looked across at Marisol and winked.

She lowered her eyes, playing with a loose thread on the hem of her nightgown.

"Except not so much on your mommy any more, but I'm working on it," Paul continued. "Right, Cheerios?"

"I brought a photo album," Marisol said, suddenly feeling a little shy. She had no idea if he'd even want to see photos of Melody from birth to now, but it seemed like the sort of thing new parents did. "I brought it to show Angela, if you want to see it."

“Course I do." Paul stood and positioned Melody high on his chest as if he'd been carting her around for the last eight months and was a pro. "Let's have a look."

They pored over the album while sitting together on the floor of the living room. Paul studied every photo, asking questions about some of them, and when they reached the end he asked if he could keep the album.

She nodded. "Yes. I have copies."

"Good. Here, hold this," he said, placing Melody in her lap. "I mean her," he corrected. He stood in the doorway, grinning adorably. "It's a bit hard getting used to the fact that she’s an actual tiny person, innit?"

"Yeah." Marisol smiled. “I've a little longer to get used to the idea than you've had."

Paul returned with a camera and spent the next half hour posing the two of them and asking Marisol to take pictures of him holding Melody. He offered to watch her so Marisol could have a bath and get dressed. She came back downstairs twenty minutes later to find Paul and Melody lying on the floor of the living room cooing at each other. Paul was awfully good at this baby daddy thing.

 

**************************

Jim McCartney shook Marisol's hand at the front door. "So sorry to hear about your grandmother. Paul had nothing but good things to say about her."

"She felt the same way about him," Marisol said.

“And this is the little one?” Jim looked over her shoulder at Paul with Melody in his arms. “She’s your spitting image, Son.”

Jim’s new wife Angie was a tiny woman with a huge smile. Paul had to bend down to receive her hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Her six-year-old daughter Ruth grinned up at Paul. “You’re on my cousin’s wallpaper!”

“I am?” Paul stooped and pretended to tickle her. “You’re on _my_ cousin’s wallpaper too!”

Ruth giggled. “I’m not!”

As soon as Jim took a seat in the living room, Paul put Melody on his lap. The two of them fussed over the baby while Angela made herself at home, bustling in and out of the kitchen with trays of tea and cakes that Mrs. Kelly had made.

“Son, I should think your Beatles haircut must've served its purpose by now," Paul's father said. "Might it be changed to something less extreme?"

“We’ll see, Dad. Maybe one day.”

“Would you look at this?” Mr. McCartney had been holding Melody on his shoulder, and she had immediately latched on to his jacket, furiously sucking on it. When he held her out in front of him she wouldn’t let go, and by the time Paul disentangled the jacket lapel from Melody’s mouth, the spot where she’d been gumming the fabric was drenched. “Can you believe my own granddaughter would do me this way?” he teased.

Melody stretched her head toward Mr. McCartney’s neck, her mouth open, searching for something else to chew on. “She’s like a little vampire,” Paul observed.

“She’s teething,” Marisol said quietly, but her mind was whirling with loud thoughts. How strange to hear Mr. McCartney referring to Melody as his granddaughter. Marisol had only seen him once before in her life, and now he was her child’s grandfather. He could potentially feel the same sort of bond with her daughter as her own father did.

“Do you have a frozen carrot, Paul?” Angie asked.

“Why on earth would I freeze a carrot?” Paul answered.

“For her teething.” Angie jumped up and went into the kitchen, presumably to look for frozen vegetables.

“That woman is never still,” Mr. McCartney said.

 _And never quiet._ Angie chattered nonstop through lunch, mostly about the troubles they were having with Paul’s enthusiastic fans. Little Ruth’s hair had been chopped off by teenage souvenir seekers, and her raincoat and wellies continually went missing from the nursery school cloak room because they had “McCartney” embossed on them.

Halfway through lunch Marisol's head was starting to hurt from Angie’s constant chatter and the fact that fans buzzed the intercom every five minutes. Paul somehow noticed her discomfort. He squeezed her knee under the table and when she looked up at him he gave her a little wink.

She put Melody down for a nap after lunch and when she got back downstairs, Paul and his father were smoking at the far end of the back garden and seemed to be having a serious conversation. Marisol joined Angie and Ruth in front of the television in the sitting room.

Angie scooted closer to Marisol on the sofa. "That Jane was a lovely girl but I just couldn't see it lasting,” she confided.

Marisol glanced sharply out the window. Paul seemed to be explaining something to his father, who stood looking up at the trees with his arms crossed over his chest.

Angie continued. "Oh I know he considered her a great prize, but when it comes right down to it, a northern man likes his creature comforts. I'm not saying she can't cook. She's a wonderful cook, mind you, but she spent far too much time thinking about her career and not enough time taking care of Paul."

"Angie," Marisol said, when she was finally able to get a word in, "Paul and I aren't together...he's still seeing Jane as far as I know."

Angie's mouth formed a surprised O. "Well. I thought since you were _staying here_ with the _little one_ that the two of you were..." She patted Marisol's knee. "How silly of me. You young women are so much more liberated now. I suppose I’m a wee bit old-fashioned. On our third date Jim said to me, ‘well, now, we have to do something. Do you want to be my housekeeper, or live with me, or get married?’ And I said, ‘I’ll only stay here if we’re married.’ So that’s as romantic a proposal as I got from him.”

Marisol put her chin in her hand and stared wistfully out the window, trying to will Paul to come back inside. Finally she mumbled something about checking on Melody and fled from the room.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Kelly didn't look up from the dishes she was washing. Marisol decided to kill her with kindness. “The stew for lunch was delicious, Mrs. Kelly. Everyone wanted seconds. I'd love your recipe."

Mrs. Kelly sniffed. "I dae na reckon ye'll be round long enough for me to teach ye how to cook,"

Marisol rubbed her temples and sighed. "You're probably right."

Twenty minutes later, Paul came around the corner, his face lighting up as he saw Marisol sitting at the top of the stairs outside the bedrooms. "Hello pretty girl on my steps."

"Hey handsome boy on your steps."

He chuckled and dropped down beside her. "I wanted to thank you for staying and putting up with everyone. I know Angie can be a bit hard to take." He leaned into her, nudging her with an elbow. "I'm right proud of you."

She couldn’t keep from smiling back. Any scrap of attention from him felt like the sun coming out from behind a cloud and beaming its warmth down on her. It was pitiful but true. “When did your dad remarry?”

“Little over a year ago.”

“Are you okay with it?”

He shrugged. “I s’pose. Seemed odd to me that they married after only seeing each other three times.”

_“What?”_

“Aye, and she’s thirty years younger. I bought me dad a lovely home with land in the back and a view of the River Dee, and set him up so he could retire, and the next thing I know he’s married to a virtual stranger with a small child.”

“But a house is not a home. I’m sure he was lonely. He seems happy now.”

“He’ll never have another lonely second, I reckon. What are you doing up here anyway? Taking a break?"

"I was afraid I couldn’t hear Melody."

His eyes were scanning her face, stopping on her lips before moving to her eyes. Their faces were inches apart. “You can wait in my room if you fancy. With me.”

His soft tone sent heat through her body. Her heart pounded an erratic rhythm. The look in his eyes and the coaxing tone of his voice told her there was a lot more implied in that invitation than waiting for their daughter to wake from a nap. The air around them seemed electrified as he awaited her response. His nearness made her senses spin. He was every bit as devastating as she remembered. _And every bit as taken._

She’d made such progress in the past year where Paul was concerned. If she let her guard down now, she’d be back at square one, crying herself to sleep over him. This couldn’t end well.  
She opened her mouth to speak but stopped when she heard the fretful sound Melody always made when she woke up and realized she was alone. They leapt to their feet at the same instant. Paul beat her to the bed, lifting a drowsy, warm Melody from the blankets and covering her face with kisses.

 

Paul had brought home the new Disney film _Winnie the Pooh_ for Ruth, and everyone settled in comfy chairs in his home theater. He spent five minutes trying to get the automatic screen to lower via a button on the wall. He finally gave up and spent another ten minutes lowering it manually.

While they waited, Mr. McCartney made a point of sitting next to Marisol and the baby. He somehow knew a myriad of details about her. He wanted to know about her flying lessons, and he told her that he and Angie had flown to the Bahamas last year to watch the movie _Help!_ being filmed. He asked about her horses and told her about the race horse Paul had bought for him. He told her about his prized grapevines behind his new home and asked her about the vineyards in California and how they were managed. It was clear from his questions that Marisol had been at least partially the subject of his long conversation with Paul in the garden. And his attempt to find common ground between them was endearing. It was if he was letting her know he accepted her role as the mother of his grandchild and wanted to get to know her.

When the movie finally started, Paul and his father passed Melody back and forth until she got fussy, and then Paul stood in the doorway with her, patting her back and singing a soft lullaby.

Mrs. Kelly had left a chicken pie, and after dinner everyone retired to the sitting room. Mr. McCartney watched horse races on television and smoked his pipe, Angie worked through a crossword puzzle, Marisol played on the floor with Melody and peeked at one of the kittens asleep underneath the sofa, and Paul made up elaborate stories involving Ruth’s favorite stuffed animals, Piglet and Mr. Ted.

Of course Paul wanted to be involved in bath time and bedtime rituals with Melody. He sang her to sleep, over Marisol’s protests that he was spoiling her, and put her down gently in the middle of the bed in the guest room. They stepped outside and quietly closed the door.

“I’m going to rinse this bottle,” Marisol said, heading for the stairs.

Paul reached for her hand. “Hold on a tick.” He leaned back against the wall, barely holding her fingers. He studied her with a sweet, musing look. “I want you to know I’m proud of you. You’re a good mum. This nurturing side of you, I like it. I guess, what I’m trying to say is…I’m sorry I lost my virginity. But I’m glad I have a daughter. And I’m glad it’s with you.”

Marisol covered her mouth to keep her laughter from waking Melody. “I’m sorry you lost your virginity too.” And because she couldn’t help herself, she looped an arm around his neck and brushed her lips across his cheek. “But it looks like I picked a good baby daddy.”

His arms wrapped around her like a warm blanket, his hands locked against her spine. Her curves molded to the contours of his body, and she closed her eyes, practically sighing with pleasure. With his arms enveloping her, his breath warm against her face, she felt herself starting to relax for the first time in who knew how long. He was like a drug to her, and she could have happily stood there on her tiptoes, melting against him until morning, if she hadn’t heard Ruth’s footsteps on the stairs. With a ragged breath, Paul let his arms fall away. Marisol steadied herself on the banister and watched him lean back against the wall, dragging a hand through his hair. She wondered if she looked as flushed and shaken as he did.

 

That night Paul didn't wander around the house and end up in Marisol’s bed. Maybe he was following her rule. Or maybe with his dad and family in the house there were other people to distract him. Or maybe, after introducing Melody to his father and seeing how well everything went, he could finally relax and get some sleep. She hoped so. She stared up through the darkness, listening to her daughter’s soft breathing, and replayed the events of the day. Only three days ago she would have never believed that she would be staying in Paul’s house and relating to him this way. Effortlessly slipping back into the easy way they’d always had with each other. Falling into his arms and feeling the same pull she’d always felt. After all her hard work for the past year, she was back to square one:

Number of days since she’d been held by Paul McCartney: 0  
Number of days since she realized she might still be in love with Paul McCartney: 1


	42. Got To Get You Into My Life

 

The Cavendish house was a hive of activity before the sun was fully up. Jim was being treated in Liverpool for his arthritis and had an afternoon doctor's appointment. The McCartneys were taking an early train home.

A driver arrived amid a flurry of goodbyes and hugs and cheek kisses and promises to visit soon. When the front door closed behind Jim and Ruth and Angie, the house seemed oddly quiet.

Marisol turned to Paul. "So."

"So," he repeated, smiling down at her.

“Now that Melody has met your dad, I'm thinking of rebooking my flight."

He shrugged. “What's the rush? At least stay the weekend.”

Marisol thought it over. There really was no rush. Paul distracted her from grieving over her grandmother. Melody was happy. It would do them good to relax a few more days before the long trip home. She smiled to herself. He wanted them to stay.

The thing about being swept up in Paul's world was that the pace was so fast, his mind was so quick and his life was so full, that she never had time to be sad when she was around him. Even grieving over her grandmother was temporarily suspended until she got back home and could breathe again. When she was with Paul, they lived fully in the moment. She didn't think about the past or the future, because it took all her concentration just to keep up with him in the present. And that wasn't such a bad way to live.

“What's on the schedule today for a busy rock star?” she asked.

"John’s popping round. We’re working on a song. And we have to go to the studio tonight. We have a hit album to make.”

“Good to know some things never change.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear. I certainly hope they never change. Let’s get a cuppa.” He lifted Melody from her arms and headed into the kitchen.

Mrs. Kelly was busy upstairs stripping bedding, for which Marisol was grateful. They could have their tea and toast and jam without the older woman’s reproachful looks.

It felt like they were playing house as they bustled around in the kitchen, accidentally or intentionally brushing up against one another as they poured tea and made toast and reached inside the ice box for butter and jam. They sat at the table with their knees touching, laughing about silly things Ruth had done or Angie had said. Paul held Melody in his lap, praising her efforts as she concentrated on getting Cheerios from the bowl in his hand to her mouth.

When the bowl was empty, Melody took it with both hands and peered down, seconds from slinging it to the floor.

“No!” Marisol said sharply, wresting the bowl from her daughter’s grip and putting it out of her reach. Melody fretted, tilting her head back against Paul’s chest.

Paul frowned. “Don’t be mean to her.”

Marisol snickered. “You’re new to this, aren’t you?”

He pointed a finger to her chest. “And whose fault is that? Yours.”

She grabbed his finger, bringing his hand to her lap. “You can’t let her rule the house like some seventeen pound tyrant.”

“The world is a brutal place, Mari. She’ll find out soon enough. Home should be as happy as we can make it.”

“A happy place full of broken crockery and Cheerios all over the place?” She looked at the floor. “Where is your broom?”

“Fuck if I know.” Carrying Melody high on his chest, Paul went to the cupboards and took out two sauce pans. He turned one of the pans over and practiced a rhythm with a wooden spoon. “Let’s go make some music, baby girl,” he said, carrying her into the sitting room.

Marisol was still on her knees picking up Cheerios when the intercom buzzed.

 

John Lennon didn’t actually have to push the intercom at Paul’s gate. The increased noise level from the fans told everyone on the block that Paul McCartney’s partner in rhyme had arrived. The fans liked pushing the buzzer, however, since it gave them a legitimate reason to talk to Paul again.

Marisol drew a curtain aside as another face popped up over the wall, watching John climbing out of a black sedan. The girls would hang on to the wall as long as they could, and when one dropped down another would pop up.

The second John walked in, she threw her arms around his neck, before he even had the chance to finish calling “Hemingway!”

“Lennon! I missed you, you wacker!”

He laughed. “Don't you mean wanker, love?”

“So you admit it!” She stepped back to look at him, her grin wide. Then she noticed the look on Paul’s face as he swung the door closed behind John and felt a little guilty about the enthusiastic way she greeted his best friend.

“I hear you’ve managed to get yourself knocked up,” John said, eying her up and down.

“Er, I had a little help,” Marisol said, her grin fading. _Same old John._

John walked through the house, throwing a wave at Mrs. Kelly, who’d come downstairs to answer the door. He paused in the doorway to the sitting room, looking down at Melody. She was clinging to the side of the sofa trying to figure out how to get to Jesus, who was stretched across a cushion with one eye open.

“By gum, you can’t deny this one, Macca,” John muttered.

Paul clapped his hands. “So. About that song.”

John slouched onto the sofa. “I haven’t even had me tea yet.”

“I’ll get it,” Marisol offered. She went into the kitchen, a little surprised that she was already so comfortable leaving her baby for Paul to watch.

Mrs. Kelly made it clear with a withering look that she didn’t fancy Marisol meddling in her domain. In fact, she didn’t fancy Marisol at all. Marisol stood shuffling her feet, watching the older woman arranging a pot of tea, cups and a plate of scones on a tray.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kelly, I’ll take it,” she said, and Mrs. Kelly huffed. Marisol sighed and picked up the tray. So what, she thought, she wasn’t going to be here much longer anyway.

John and Paul were watching an interview on _The Money Programme_  when she came in with the tea tray.

Paul was at the other end of the sofa from John with his arm loosely around Melody’s chest. She was still trying to get to Jesus.

“Do you want the bad news first or the good news, Mari?” Paul asked, watching her pour the tea.

Marisol sighed. “I don’t want any bad news at all, thanks.”

“Right. The good news is, she didn’t even cry.” Paul lifted Melody’s arm. A tiny scratch bloomed against the pale white skin of her wrist.

“Jesus, did you do that?” Marisol chided the cat. “Why is he on the furniture, anyway?”

John cackled. “Jesus isn’t a boy cat. She’s a girl.”

Marisol shook her head. “Okay, you two are just wrong. I’m renaming her Jessie.” She stepped across John’s legs and scooped up the kitten. Jessie meowed a compliant. “Pour your own tea,” Marisol said, heading for the garden to let Jessie out.

When she got back to the sitting room, Paul was on the floor with Melody, teaching her a rhythm on the overturned pans. Marisol swept the cat hair off the sofa and sat down next to John. “How is your lovely bride?”

John lit a cigarette. “Not good, Hemingway. Her Mum’s really gettin’ on me goat.”

“Does she live with you?”

John let his head fall back on the sofa and blew out a breath of smoke. “Every god damn day.”

“Mmm.” Marisol shook her head, sympathizing with him. “What about Julian?”

“Julian’s great,” Paul answered. “He’s bright as a button.”

“Gettin’ a bit cheeky, though,” John said. “Cyn’s mum lets him get away with murder.”

Marisol patted John’s knee. “You should enjoy this time. They don’t stay little long.”

John gave her a sidelong look. “What’s happened to you, eh? Yer startin’ to sound like me Aunt Mimi.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Marisol smiled sweetly.

Paul stood up and started waving the air. “Not in front of the kid, John.”

Marisol realized John’s cigarette was not made of tobacco.

“All right, Macca, keep your hair on.” John got up and sauntered over to a chair by the window.

“And not in the house,” Paul added.

“That’s a load of tosh,” John said. “Whose house is it anyway, Paul? Is it yours or your old lady’s?”

John complained some more, but Marisol heard him open the window and when she looked over her shoulder he was blowing the smoke into the garden.

 

The intercom buzzed twice and Paul shouted toward the kitchen. “Mrs. Kelly? Can you get that?”

Mrs. Kelly appeared in the doorway not thirty seconds later. “Sir. It’s the lady.” She flashed a disapproving look in Marisol’s direction.

Marisol watched the color drain from Paul’s face before he jumped to his feet. With both hands in his hair, he spun around in a slow circle, staring at the ceiling and swearing. Then he pointed at her. “You. Wait right here.”

John suddenly threw back his head and laughed. “Bloody hell. This is about to get good.”

“What is going on?” Marisol asked as soon as Paul left the room.

John snickered. “You’re about to meet Lady Jane.”

 

**********************

 

“I need a drink. Or ten.” Marisol picked up her daughter and stood by the French door, ready to bolt. She jostled Melody in her arms. “This isn’t happening. I’m still back in California, enjoying Christmas.” She glanced at John. “Merry Christmas, Lennon. Thanks for popping across the pond.”

“Aye, Happy Crimble.” John played along. “Pass me another drop of port, would you darling?”

“Did you bring me a present?”

“Yes. It’s in me trousers. Come get it.”

Marisol giggled. She wondered if she was on the verge of hysteria.

"Why would Jane push the buzzer anyway? Doesn't she live here?" Marisol asked, fishing for information.

John shrugged, licked his fingers and pinched the end of his cigarette and tucked it away in his shirt pocket. "The fans push the buzzer when anyone arrives. Gives them a chance to talk to Paulie."

"Oh." Marisol sighed and shifted Melody to her other hip. Whether or not Jane lived here, they were soon to be face to face. She could ask her herself.

There was a good five minutes of heated discussion from the kitchen before the door opened and Jane walked in. Paul was behind her, and his face could be the dictionary entry for _uncomfortable_.

The two women barely acknowledged each other when Paul made a quick introduction. Both of them were too busy glaring at Paul.

Jane stood barely inside the room with her arms crossed, a tiny, angry, titian-haired Skipper doll.

Paul scrubbed a hand through his hair before walking over to Marisol. His eyes were a mixture of tenderness and remorse, and as he lifted Melody out of her arms he whispered in her ear. “I need you to trust me.”

“Jane, this is Melody.”

Jane’s gaze went from Paul to Melody and back to Paul, and she briefly closed her eyes. “How lovely,” she said in a small voice.

Marisol watched Jane attempt a smile at her daughter, and she suddenly felt a stab of guilt for her part in all of this. And wonder of wonders, instead of feeling animosity for this girl, she actually commiserated with her. Jane had done nothing but fall in love with Paul. Marisol could relate to that.

“He didn’t know about her,” Marisol blurted out. “We haven't seen each other in over a year. And I don’t want anything from him.”

Paul made a slicing gesture at her. “Ssshhh, not necessary.”

“How long will you be in England?” Jane asked, not meeting her eyes.

Marisol shrugged helplessly. “I really don’t know. Not long.” She flicked her eyes at Paul, as if to say, ASK HIM. He was the one who canceled her flight, after all.

Jane hugged herself tightly and stared at the floor.

Marisol's arms felt suddenly empty. Every cell in her body ached to grab her daughter and bolt. "I'll just be outside in the garden. If Melody needs me," Marisol called over her shoulder as she dashed out the door.

John was on her heels. He cleared his throat. "That wasn't such fun after all. The both of you are far too civilized for my taste."

Marisol paced to the back of the garden, whirling her arms with pent up energy. “That was the most awkward thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You’re lucky then,” John said, catching up to her. “Every day of my life is more awkward than that.”

Marisol suddenly started to laugh. They were standing in front of a huge glass dome on an elevated concrete platform. “What in the hell is this now?”

“It’s a meditation dome. Where our Paulie goes to smoke pot. Jane doesn’t like it inside the house. A real Bossyboots, that one.”

Marisol leaned against him, covering her mouth so she didn’t sound hysterical as she laughed.

John eyed her. “I do believe you’re suffering from second hand smoke.”

“Have any more of that cigarette?”

“I do.”

“Well. Come on then.”

The floor of the dome was covered with large cushions. “Oh hell,” Marisol said. “This is not for meditating. I know what goes on in here.”

John sat down in the middle of the cushions and lit a cigarette. He handed it to Marisol.

“One drag,” Marisol said, looking him in the eye. “Just to take away my desire to kill someone.”

John shrugged. “Have it your way.”

She sucked in the smoke, held it as long as she could, and handed it back to John after a coughing fit.

“You’re so bad at this,” John said, reaching behind him.

The entire floor of the dome suddenly began to rise.

“What the crap is this now? I only had one toke!” Marisol flung herself back on the cushions, watching the roof of the dome getting closer and closer. “I’m having a bad trip, John!”

John laid back on the cushions, laughing at her. “Relax, you silly sausage.”

When the floor stopped moving, Marisol crawled to the side to look out. “Now I’ve seen everything.” She looked toward the house, then back at John. She watched him smoke for a few seconds.

“Do you think he’s going to marry her?”

“Course not,” John said immediately.

“How do you know?” She crawled closer to John. She was going to lie close to him and get high by breathing his smoke. A no guilt high.

“She’s too posh for him. She can't help it. It's the way she was raised."

"Hmm. Do you think I'm posh?"

John snorted. "Course not, You're American." He took another drag. "And she’s so anti-drugs. It won’t last much longer.”

“Are there a lot of drugs?”

He gave her a sidelong look. “I wouldn’t worry about Paulie. He’s the least adventurous of all of us. He’s a bit of a square.”

“I doubt that.” She stared up at the sky. Donna was never going to believe this story. She was smoking pot with John Lennon in an elevated glass house. Well, sort of breathing it in, anyway.

“Let’s talk about something else. When are you going to make your next film?”

“I dunno. We weren’t happy with the last one. _Help!_ was too Disneyland. And the best stuff was on the cutting room floor, with us breaking up and falling about all over the place.”

“I didn’t see _Help!_ ,” Marisol admitted.

“Ah, you didn’t miss much. Lester didn’t really utilize us in that film. He forgot about who and what we were, and the film just didn’t work. It was like having clowns in a movie about frogs. But we got paid for being high for three months. Time well spent.”

“Tell me more about Julian. Last time I saw him he was Melody’s size.”

John nodded. “He’s almost 3, and he’s an artist, by gum. I would put his drawings on the refrigerator, but honestly, they’re pure rubbish.”

Marisol giggled. John was great at distraction. “How are you and Cyn?”

John didn’t answer for a long time. “I have everything I could want and I’m miserable. Why do you suppose that is?”

“I have no idea,” Marisol said honestly. “Maybe you’re smarter than everyone else and that makes you lonely.”

“I used to think when I was a lad that I was either a genius or insane. I still don’t fookin’ know the answer.”

“Why can’t you be both?”

“Well.” John thought a minute. “Maybe that’s it then.”

They stared at the sky wordlessly for a few more minutes until they heard a shrill whistle from the garden below.

Marisol crawled over to one of the windows and popped her head up.

Paul was standing in the garden, looking up. “Bring it down, John.”

When they reached the ground, Paul stood in the entrance to the dome. He motioned for John to leave, and he came inside and held Marisol’s arm while he turned the switch again, sending them back up in the sky.

“Where is my daughter?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“Mrs. Kelly is watching her, she’s fine.”

“Mrs. Kelly hates me!”

“What? Don’t be daft.”

“Why are we going up in the sky?”

“I don’t want you running off until we have a chance to talk.”

Marisol pulled her arm out of his grasp and moved to the opposite side of the dome. “Oh, is that what this is for? A place for you to trap women so they can’t get away?”

Paul barked out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s it. Keeping women from getting away is a big problem of mine.”

Marisol had to bite back a laugh of her own. There were at least a dozen women standing outside his gate right now, vying for his attention. Begging to sleep with him. Yelling “Paul! I’m saving myself for you!” Jane and Marisol might have fought for his attention too, if the one weren’t so civilized and the other hadn’t been holding a child. This whole situation was ridiculous and laughable.

Paul sniffed the air. “Are you serious? Were you and John smoking dope together?”

“Don’t be daft,” Marisol mimicked him.

When the floor stopped rising, Paul stalked her. She leaned back against the glass as he loomed over her.

“Look. I’m sorry about Jane dropping in. I never intended to put you in that position. But she’s been in my life a long time. I have a history with her family. Things haven’t been working out, but it's a delicate situation. I don't want to hurt anyone.”

Marisol rolled her eyes. She sidestepped him and lunged for the switch.

Paul grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back against him. She went limp in his arms and somehow tripped him. They both landed hard on the cushions.

“Owww!” Marisol moaned, rubbing her elbow.

“Hey. All right. If you just want to roll around with me on the floor all you have to do is say so.”

“I want to punch your lights out is what I want.”

Paul sat up and tightened his stomach muscles. “Do it, if it will make you feel better.”

He saw her hesitation. “Go on then. Have a go at me.”

She couldn’t hit him. Maybe it was the one drag on John’s cigarette, but she couldn’t hurt him. She loved him. _The ass_. She moaned and rolled over on her stomach. “My elbow hurts too much.”

Paul edged closer to her and rubbed her back. She felt him stretch out beside her.

“You didn't let me finish. I do care about Jane, but she's as much of a workaholic as I am. She’s not even in London half the time. It just isn't working out. All we do any more is fuss and fight." He blew out a sigh that she felt on her cheek. "I promise that sort of scene won't happen again."

"I know it won't, because I'm going to Angela's as soon as you set me free from your sex dome."

"My what?"

She opened her eyes. His face was only inches away. "I bet you have tons of sex up here in the sky."

"I don't need gimmicks, Mari. You know that better than anyone." He gave her one of those Paul McCartney grins, the kind that would make her heart race if she weren't so irritated with him. “I can prove it to you again right now if you'd like. In case you've forgotten how it is with us."

She groaned and turned her head the other way, rolling onto her shoulder with her back to him and staring out at the trees. The sky was grey, no trace of the sun, and she wished she'd grabbed a jacket before running outside. She brought her knees to her chest, wishing she had Paul's body heat. She wished he would spoon with her and tell her it was okay to love him and that he wasn't going to break her heart again.

He moved closer and fitted himself around her, his knees behind her legs, her bottom snug against his crotch, her back to his chest. His arm slid around her waist and he sighed against her neck, his breath hot and moist.

_God, he was so telepathic._

“Please trust me, Mari. I've only known about you and our daughter for four days. I thought you were out of my life for good. I thought I’d never see you again. I’ll get it sorted, I promise.”

Marisol had no idea what he meant by getting it sorted. Her life was so out of control right now. She felt like a kidnap victim. Forced against her will to be with Paul McCartney for 48 hours so that she would fall in love with him again in time for his girlfriend to show up.

"I feel like I’m at the mercy of your whims."

He was quiet for a minute, contemplating this. "Don't you want to be here with me?"

"Last night I did. But when I'm around you I keep wanting more."

He rolled her onto her back so he could look at her. "Do you know how hard it's been for me not to kiss you these past few days?"

She found herself staring at his lips, wondering if she even remembered how to kiss the way they used to kiss each other, all open mouths and tongues and breathing each other's breath.

"And do you know why I haven't done so?"

She slowly shook her head, "Is it...halitosis?"

A laugh burst out of him and he lowered his forehead to hers. "God, I miss you, you silly girl. I miss the way we make each other laugh."

He lifted his head to look at her. "I haven't kissed you because I haven't had a chance to talk to Jane. I'm not going to cheat on her and have you think I would treat you the same way. Because I won't. Ever."

She stared at him, afraid to believe what he was saying. Afraid not to. “Okay…what if I kiss _you_ then?"

He stared back at her, his eyes roaming over her face and settling on her lips. He grimaced and rolled onto his back. "We won't be able to stop."

 _I don't care!_ she wanted to scream. _I don't want to stop!_  Instead she turned toward him, shivering as she rested her forehead against the shoulder of his brown tweed jacket. "Can I share your jacket?"

"Of course." They both sat up as he took off his jacket and draped it across her shoulders. He laid back down on the cushions, pulling her with him, his arms locked around her back. "Better?"

"Mmm." She pressed her nose against his neck. Her hands were in fists to keep them from roaming all over his body. She bit her lip to keep from saying something she'd regret. Something like please, for gods sake, take your clothes off and roll around with me under this winter sky like Martians have landed in London and we're the only two humans left in your back yard spaceship.

"Not kissing you is the hardest thing I've ever done." His voice rumbled in her ear.

"Harder than Shea Stadium?"

He scoffed. "Oh yeah. Shea was nothin'. No one could hear us, so there was nothin' to be nervous about. We didn't even rehearse. No point to it."

"Harder than the Royal Command Performance?

"Harder even than that."

Her heart was tripping out of her chest and she didn't know what to believe. Paul might be sincerely swept up in some sort of fantasy of having a happy little family, but when she left and he took stock of the limitless options open to the only unmarried Beatle, he might have second thoughts. The chemistry between them had always been irresistible. Maybe they needed to take a step back and give their brains a chance to catch up.

"You said you needed to get things sorted," she said, placing her palm over his heart.

"That's true. A few days, a week at the most."

She wondered if his bedroom closet was full of Jane’s things. Maybe the cats were all hers. Who knew?

"I think I should go home and let you sort whatever it is you're sorting."

“I don’t want you to go," he said, tightening his arms around her. "I don’t want you taking Melody away, and I don’t want you leaving.”

"You said it yourself. It's really hard for me to stay here with all of this...this not kissing. And I left California in the middle of the night at a moment's notice. I need to get back."

He stared up at the sky. "I need to get back to work too. I took the last few days off but I really must be in the studio tonight. And I need to somehow pull four more hit songs out of my arse before then."

She laughed. "Don't forget to check John's arse. He might have a few."

He hummed a response, then sighed. "Are you serious about going to Angela's?"

"Yes. You need to work, and I need to think."

“I’ll book a flight for you tomorrow. But I’m not losing you again,” he said quietly. “I’m not losing both of you.”

She sighed. “You know where to find me.”

 

John was still standing in the garden smoking when they returned the dome to the ground.

Paul and Marisol walked out together, Paul’s arm around her shoulders.

John looked at the two of them. “Did you give her a little something to remember London by?" He raised his chin at the glass dome. "Shall I have Mrs. Kelly change the sheets in the shagging chariot?”

Marisol gave him an elbow to the gut as she passed. He grunted and coughed.

 

Mrs. Kelly was actually sitting on the kitchen floor, playing the shell game with Melody with three colorful aluminum tumblers and a spool of thread. "Ach, she's a clever little lass. She dae na miss a thing." She seemed reluctant to get to her feet and back to the housework.

Paul made a quick phone call, arranging a driver to take Marisol and Melody to Angela's flat. Then he turned to John. “We haven’t done fuck all on this song. Let’s get to it."

They headed to the stairs. “Would you do us some sammies, love?” Paul called over his shoulder to Marisol. “We’re starving.”

 

*************************

 

"Do you need another dramatic goodbye scene at an airport?" Paul asked her the next morning as the limousine came to a stop in front of Pan Am departures.

Marisol assured him she didn't. He climbed out anyway, covering Melody's face with kisses as they stood beside the limousine. "She's a good traveler?"

"Yeah. The engines put her right to sleep."

He nodded. "I'll send you another ticket in a couple of weeks. Sorry I can't come to California this time. We're in the middle of an LP. But I will. Next time."

They watched the driver unload Marisol's bags and take them to a porter.

Paul reluctantly handed Melody over, leaning down to kiss her soft cheek one last time. Marisol caught a whiff of his aftershave and tobacco smell and tried not to let him see how she was breathing it in. He noticed anyway.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, seeming at a loss for words. He was evidently still bad at goodbyes.

She adjusted Melody on her hip and felt in the front pocket of her shoulder bag for her ticket. "I looked back," she said quietly.

"I don't know what you mean," he said, frowning.

"When you asked me to stay in London and I left anyway? Even after what happened in Key West, I want you to know that wasn't an easy decision, I looked back every day."

He stood poker straight, chin lifted, listening silently to Marisol, his dark eyes never leaving her face, as if he needed not only to hear but to see every word she spoke.

"I wouldn't have expected anything else." His voice broke off, and he squeezed his thumb and forefinger into the sockets of his eyes. When he had composed himself, he looked at her and said, "How is it all we ever do is say goodbye? And now there are three of us."

He started to say something else, but the driver stepped between them, opening the door. Paul had been recognized, and a small crowd was gathering.

"See you both soon." With a little wave, he ducked back into the limousine.

It wasn't going to be easy, Marisol knew, all this flying back and forth with a baby. But if Paul wanted this, then so did she. She wanted Melody to have a daddy. She wanted Paul to have Melody. Seeing them together would make all the flying worth it. And there was no use denying it, Marisol wanted to be with him too. She'd spent a lot of the past few years saying _What if?_ It was time to find the answer to that question. She was beyond ready.

She headed into the terminal, knowing that for the foreseeable future, this would be her life.


	43. The Ballad of Paul and Marisol

Back home in California, Marisol found herself counting the days until she could see Paul again. He called every night, which was no small feat. Transatlantic calls still had to be scheduled with an international operator and depended upon whether or not the transatlantic cable was at capacity. They discovered Paul’s calls were more likely to go through in the middle of the night in London when everyone else was asleep. They still had to deal with the constant hiss and low level static, so their calls usually ended in frustration.

She received a letter from him a week after she’d been home. He ended the newsy letter with “See you soon, All my love, Paul” and she read the letter through three times, wondering about what was going on with his relationship with Jane and trying to find hidden clues in his words.

Sitting in her bedroom with the letter in her hands, she began thinking about the locked blue suitcase in the back of her closet. There were close to a dozen unopened letters from Paul inside. She had locked them away as soon as they arrived, because it was far too painful to read them. But right now, staring at the closet, curiosity gnawed at her.

She hauled out the suitcase and dusted it off. The key was still in the lock. On top of the gifts, records and trinkets he had given her over the course of a year was a small stack of letters. She pulled out the last one he’d sent, a light blue envelope with her name and address in Paul’s familiar writing. There was no return address. In England it was customary to put the sender’s address at the top of the letter instead of on the envelope.

She tore it open, heart pounding, one hand covering her mouth as she read the words he’d written to her over a year ago.

 

  
_**February 1965**_

_**The Ballad of Paul and Marisol*** _

_**Once upon a time a boy asked a girl if she would take his hand and let him love her. Once upon a time he kissed her lips and wondered how he had ever said I love you to any one else.** _

_**He wondered because he had never felt so much love for anyone else. Not for his first love or any other. This was a feeling like no other he had experienced. That scared the boy more than he could articulate, describe or understand.** _

_**They were best friends who had discovered a secret. They were lovers and confidants. He was her hero, hopelessly devoted and so very scared.** _

_**That didn’t mean that he didn’t make the girl crazy because he did. He knew how to press all of her buttons and he knew how to make her feel simply….wonderful. It was uncanny how easily he charmed her. It was infuriating to her not to be able to stay angry with him.** _

_**But how can you stay angry with someone who knows how to open your heart with a word and whose presence soothes your soul. You cannot and you don’t.** _

_**At least that is what you think and what you feel- but sometimes things happen.** _

_**They say that hindsight is twenty-twenty but whether that is true or not remains in the eyes of the beholder. Really it all comes back to perspective and the man who had been the boy readily admitted that he didn’t have as much of that as he wished.** _

_**The girl and the boy who had loved each other with passion and promises never to let go had moved on and let go of that which had kept them together. The faith they held in each other had been tested and they had failed the test.** _

_**When push came to pull and pull came to shove they had fallen. Fingers that had been intertwined and hands that had been held were no more.** _

_**She was gone and though he had chased after her she had refused to listen. His head told him how foolish it was to waste so much energy on such a silly thing as a girl, a single girl. The world was full of millions of women. It should be easy to replace her. It should be as simple as changing shoes, but it was not. It was not, it was not.** _

_**The heart wants what the heart wants. It does, and his had chosen someone that was far more special to him than all the others. His lips remembered hers. He could still feel her touch.** _

**_His heart told him that she wasn’t really gone and that her silence was her defense. It argued against letting go and told him to give it time._ **

**_Time passed. His words went unanswered and his pleas were unheard. The boy turned into a man and learned the meaning of happiness and hell._ **

**_Reason says let go. Hope says no. Heart battles head. The man closes his eyes and sees her looking back at him. Was he not given a heart to love her?_ **

**_Once he was her hero and she was his girl. Heart battles head. Would a hero give up or would he continue to fight for her?_ **

 

  
Marisol held the letter in a shaking hand, stunned that Paul had written these words, six months after their relationship had ended. She wondered what she would have done if she’d read this at the time instead of stashing it away. Would it have made a difference?

It hurt her heart to think that Paul assumed she had read this emotional, heartfelt letter and ignored it. Instead, she had thrown it unread into a suitcase and ignored it. Which was worse?

Her hand sifted through the other unopened letters and she made a decision. She was going to read each one, let his words into her heart, and then she was going to spend the next part of her life making up for lost time.

 

 


	44. La Douleur Exquise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "La Douleur Exquise" - the exquisite pain of loving someone unattainable; a French expression that doesn't exist in English...but should
> 
> "Was I addicted to the pain, the exquisite pain, of loving someone so unattainable?" - Carrie Bradshaw

A car was waiting for her when Marisol landed at London Airport, the driver holding a sign with her name on it. Paul had paid for her first class airline ticket, and just as they had agreed over the phone, he had instructed the driver to take her to Angela’s flat.

She’d flown through the night, wide awake with Melody sleeping in her arms. Once at Angela’s flat, all she really wanted to do was take a long shower and go to bed.

She squeezed the excess water from her hair and wrapped a towel around her head. With another towel wrapped around her body, she padded barefoot into the living room to get some fresh clothes out of her suitcase, and walked right past Paul McCartney sitting at the kitchen table.

“Oh shit!” she whispered, leaning against the wall outside the kitchen where he couldn’t see her. _No makeup and dripping wet. Great._ She peeked her head around the corner. Angela was leaning against the counter, holding a bottle of milk. Paul was sitting on a green vinyl chair, his back to the doorway, with Melody on his shoulder. Melody waved her arms and squealed when she saw her, and everyone looked up. Marisol gave Angela a you-could-have-warned-me look and waved at her daughter. “Hi sweetie.”

“Hi sweetie yourself,” Paul said. He turned around in the chair and craned his neck, obviously trying to determine if she was really standing around the corner wearing only a towel. “Sexy. I see they have a rather liberal dress code on Pan Am now.”

Angela laughed. “There’s a robe on the back of my bedroom door.”

Marisol clutched the towel around her and tiptoed quickly back toward the bedrooms. She whipped off the towels and wrapped the pink chenille robe around herself. Twenty minutes in the flat and Paul was already here. She was looking in the mirror and fluffing her hair when Angela walked in, holding Melody and a bottle.

“Can she hold her bottle now?” Angela asked.

“I suppose so, but why would she, since as soon as she opens her mouth I appear?”

“Are you spoiled rotten?” Angela baby-talked into Melody’s face. “Are you a spoiled girl?” She looked over at Marisol. “Paul and I had a nice chat. I told him if he breaks your heart again I’ll castrate him myself.”

Marisol kissed Angela on the cheek. “Not a lot of people would do that for me. You’re such a good friend.”

“Just say the word and consider it done.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

Paul was standing beside the formica counter when Marisol came back wearing Angela’s fluffy pink robe. “Hello again,” she said, smiling up at him. He looked handsome and fit and only a little more pale than the last time she’d seen him. _Those English winters._

With a huge grin, he pushed away from the counter and pulled her in for a hug. She felt his lips brush her ear. “Hi pretty girl. I’m glad you’re here. Fancy a date with me?”

“Funny you should ask.” She stepped out of his hug and leaned on the counter next to him. “I was sitting in this very spot just before I came to see you in concert for the first time. I was so nervous and excited I was chewing my nails.”

He looked up at the ceiling, as if conjuring the memory. “That was a good night, as I recall.”

She gave him an answering smile. “It had a happy ending.”

“Like a good love song.”

He slid a hand beneath her damp hair and rubbed her neck, and the jet lag seemed to evaporate. “You want some dinner…or anything?”

“If your girlfriend doesn’t mind,” she said, looking back and forth between his beautiful down-sloping eyes.

“I don’t have a girlfriend right now,” he said, a slow smile curving his lips. “But that’s likely to change after tonight.”

 _Oh my god_. She wrapped both of her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. _Was this really happening?_ “I’ll have to see if Angela can watch Melody.”

“Already asked her.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said. She stepped out of his arms, cinched the robe around her waist and sauntered out of the kitchen. As soon as she turned the corner, she practically sprinted into the back bedroom.

“Oh my god,” she said, leaning against the door and catching her breath.

Angela looked up from the bed where she was feeding Melody. “Girl, you have it bad.”

“It’s been a million years since I’ve had sex, and I think it’s gonna happen tonight.”

"Are you happy about that or petrified?"

"Yes."

Angela laughed. "Just close your eyes and think of England. That’s what all good British mothers tell their daughters to do on their wedding night when they speak of the horrors to come.”

"Too late. When I close my eyes I think of Paul McCartney."

“There’s no hope for you.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind watching her tonight?”

“For a dear friend who hasn’t been laid in a million years, and who’s about to get it from her top shag, I think I can manage to watch this baby for awhile.”

“I’ll call you every two hours.”

“No, Mar, We’ll be fine. I can take care of a baby. I’ll ring my mum if I have questions. Now go. Enjoy yourself.”

 

They dined at the Top of the Tower, a brand new restaurant on the 34th floor of the Post Office Tower, the new tallest building in Britain. The restaurant slowly revolved, with an unmatched view of London. The manager had met them at a private entrance and ushered them up in the lift and into a private booth where two waiters were stationed nearby to fanproof their visit.

They talked about the new music they were listening to, the films they’d seen, the books they’d read. Paul listened with a big smile to every anecdote about Melody. That was the fun thing about dating your baby’s daddy, she realized. He wanted to hear about the main thing she wanted to talk about.

They had finished dinner and were sipping their wine, smiling across the table at each other, when a middle-aged man in a dark suit approached. Paul stood up and shook hands, calling the man by name. Marisol sat back against the leather booth, a stab of desire rushing through her as she looked at Paul standing in front of their table. She was finally able to study him without his dreamboat eyes staring back at her, distracting her. He looked better than should be humanly possible. He reached back to their table for his glass of wine and her eyes lifted automatically to where his shirt clung to his shoulders and dipped in at his waist, and down to his trousers where his hip bones…

He cleared his throat and her eyes snapped up. His hazel eyes were clearly amused at having caught her ogling him. He took his time doing his own inspection of her, a smile tugging at his lips. Then he sat down on her side of the booth, and she resisted the impulse to move over and make more room for him. She wanted their thighs touching, their hands brushing, their lips close enough to kiss.

Paul had been sweet and attentive all evening, gazing into her eyes, holding her hand on the drive to the restaurant and across the table as they waited for their meals. He hadn’t kissed her yet, though. Not when he greeted her today at Angela’s, not in the car on the way to the restaurant, not in the lift on the way up to the 34th floor. Hopefully he was planning to take her back to his house where they would kiss every inch of each other. Kiss until their lips were chapped.

“Fancy popping round to my place to hear some new music?”

_And he was still a mind reader._

“Is that a euphemism for ‘do you want to go up in my sex dome’?”

He smiled. “Meditation dome. And no, I really want you to hear the next Beatles LP. It’ll be called Revolver.”

“In that case, I would love to go up in your sex dome.”

 

Marisol pulled the collar of her coat up as Paul rolled down the car window and bargained with the fans at his front gate. “All right, girls. I’ll sign for you if you promise to go on home and give us a break for one bloody night.”

The girls swarmed the car, readying their cameras and thrusting pens and autograph books at Paul. Every one of the dozen girls peered inside the car at Marisol at least once. “Who’s she?” one of them asked.

“She’s my girlfriend. You’ll be getting used to seeing her round here.”

“What happened to Jane?” the girl asked, frowning at Marisol.

Paul kept his attention on the book he was signing and refused to answer, but Marisol detected a definite eye roll.

“Yah, where’s Jane? She’s not stuck up like this one.”

“All right girls. Give us a break now, will ya?”

The fans scattered as he rolled up the window and roared into the driveway.

 

Marisol leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Paul open a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. "Are we alone?"

Paul shot a glance around the empty kitchen, "Is this a trick question? Do you want to know if you can be loud later on? Or do you want to murder me with no eyewitnesses?"

“I only want to know if Mrs. Kelly is here.”

He poured her a glass of wine. "We're alone. You can be loud if you want. I want you to be. I want you to be so loud that the people at the St. John’s Wood tube station down the street know my name.”

She bit back a smile. “I feel sure they already do.”

He gave her a wink. “Remind them.”

 

They lay on the floor with pillows under their heads and listened to the rough tracks of the new album all the way through without speaking. Then Paul started the tape over and they listened again, while he shared recording secrets about each song. He pointed out the baroque sounding clavichord and French horn and double vocals on the poignant ballad “For No One.” He explained how John’s voice was channeled through a Leslie speaker in “Tomorrow Never Knows” and how they had each brought in recorded tape loops from home and added them to the song. He told her how he’d recently gone to John’s house to work on a song and waited by the pool while John slept. “I started strumming in E, and soon had a few chords, and by the time he’d woken up, I had pretty much written “Here, There and Everywhere.”

“It reminds me of _Pet Sounds_ ,” Marisol said.

“How good is that album? The Beach Boys had a major influence on us with this album.”

“This is a serious album, Paul. You’re no longer just making pop songs.”

“Really? You really think it’s all right?”

It amazed her that he seemed genuinely concerned that it might not be good enough, even after all their success.

“It’s one hit after another. And I can hear the differences in your song writing, your input and John’s, and George's swirling instrumentals, and it’s just fascinating.”

They were propped on their elbows, facing each other.

He ran a hand from her waist up her side, stopping just below her breast. His reticence was driving her mad. She was ready to be loud, and he was just staring at her with that little smile.

She took his hand and moved it up several inches. His eyes closed briefly and when he opened them he stared at the way his palm cupped her breast. He groaned, leaned in and placed the lightest kiss on her lips. “You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispered against the side of her face.

Before he could pull away or say more words, she grabbed the back of his neck and tugged him in for an actual kiss, a breathtaking kiss, the first they’d shared in a long, long time.

They pulled apart, his hand still on her breast. He had pushed down the cup of her bra and his thumb was stroking her nipple through the silk fabric of her blouse.

She had a tight fistful of his shirt in her hand, her fingers aching to touch him everywhere.

He was watching her, not saying anything, waiting for…something… _What was he waiting for? Permission? Inspiration?_

“Do you want to fool around?” she asked, her heart thumping wildly.

He smiled and shook his head no.

Her eyes widened. “Um…”

“No, Mari. I want us to make love.”

“Okay,” she whispered, relief flooding through her. “That works for me too.”

He kissed her chin, her lips, parting them with his. His tongue tasted like wine, deliciously tempting. He slid his mouth along her neck, inhaling deeply. “Mmm. The sweet scent of girl.”

She smiled against his hair, shivering at the sound of his voice raspy in her ear. She loved his beautiful voice in so many incantations, but the way she loved it best was when he spoke directly into her ear. He rolled her onto her back, bending and pressing his mouth to her neck as he rocked against her.

She suddenly shrieked, and Paul clamped a hand over his ear. “Holy Fuck. I’m deaf.”

She reached behind her back, pulling out a wineglass and holding it up for him to see. “Ouch.”

“My bed,” he said, still rubbing at his ear.

“Finally,” she said, panting.

Without taking his eyes from her face, he stood and pulled her to her feet, kicking the wineglass out of the way. His hands went to her face, and he pushed her back against the wall, his mouth firm on hers, open, sucking on her lips and tongue.

His hands slid down to her waist, his fingers hooked in the band of her skirt. He jerked her flush against his body and her head thumped back against the wall, hard. She resisted the urge to rub the back of her head. This was a full contact sport, the way they were playing tonight.

“You’ve ruined me for other women,” he growled. “Now you’re stuck with me.” She tightened her arms around his neck as their kisses became more urgent. Weak in the knees with butterfly wings in her stomach, all she could do was kiss him back and hang on for the ride.

Paul reached out a hand and switched off the light in the studio. She heard a volley of screams from the street. Then she heard nothing else but her heart pounding and their ragged breathing, whispered words and moans.

She barely registered how they got down the stairs, only that they never stopped kissing, and that they left a trail of clothes from the studio to Paul’s bedroom. In moments they were naked on the bed, and Paul was poised on top of her.

He sucked in a light breath. “Protection?”

“Covered,” she said.

He searched her eyes. “Look at me. This is for keeps. Are you in?”

“Mmm. I’m so in.” She grabbed his face and pulled his mouth to her neck. “So much talking. Why aren’t you in _me_?”

He nibbled at her ear and then lifted his head to look at her again. “I’m being serious, Mari. I’m in love with you. We’ve been through a lot. I cocked it up before, but not this time. This time it’s for keeps.”

Her heart felt too big to be contained in her chest. “I’m in love with you too. It’s for keeps.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl.”

And then there was only the feeling of his mouth on her, his lips pressing words into her skin, and the feeling of his hair in her hands. Her hands all on their own, roaming and smoothing all over his skin. Exploring, because it had been forever since she’d done this and she’d forgotten what his skin felt like. She pulled him closer and then pushed him back so she could watch him position himself against her. “Please,” she whispered.

He groaned as he lowered his body over hers and pushed fully into her. The sensation was overwhelming, the feeling of his face against her neck, his bare chest on hers, her hands wrapped in his hair, his hands pulling her legs around his waist, his hips pivoting as he moved inside her.

She squeezed her eyes closed and prayed for mercy to the cruel and heartless gods of ‘La douleur exquise.’ Only the French would come up an expression for the exquisite pain of loving someone unattainable, knowing it, and choosing to love them anyway.

 _Please don’t let this be that horrible, untranslatable French word_ , she prayed. _Please never let this moment end_.

“I missed you,” he said into her skin. “Fuck. I missed this so much.”

The words cut through her sex-fogged brain and they thrilled her senseless. It was official. She was addicted to Paul McCartney.

Then they were out of words, lost in each other, and _this,_ she thought, _this is what it is to make love_.

 

************************

“Can you sleep?” Paul whispered in the dark, hours later.

“No.” She nuzzled her face into his shoulder.

After a pause, he said, “Do you want to go get our daughter?”

She grinned into the darkness. “I was thinking the same thing.”

 

They spent the rest of the week playing house like newlyweds. Marisol asked Paul to give Mrs. Kelly the week off. She wanted to cook for him and their daughter, to have him all to herself, to walk around the house in their underwear and kiss each other blind wherever and whenever the mood struck them.

They slept as late in the mornings as Melody would allow, lounged around in very little clothing, cooked together and giggled. A lot. In the afternoons one of the other Beatles might drop by, and Paul would wander into the studio, coming home after Melody was already in bed. He would barely get the front door closed before they were frantically kissing, teeth clashing in their haste, tripping over furniture, desperate for each other. Then they would lie in bed, or wherever they’d landed, and laugh at how outrageous they were, and they would make love again, slowly and deliberately.

The week went by far too fast, but it was a revelation. In one week Marisol had gone from being unsure where she stood with Paul to knowing he was the one for her, and she would move to England, hell, she would move to Mars if he asked her.

 

Paul was at a photograph session when her flight departed, but it was almost better that way. She wanted to remember him wearing one of the the smiles she’d put on his face this week instead of with moist eyes at the airport watching them walk away.

He’d left her with another week of happy memories and the promise that he’d see her in California before the end of the month. Her heart had never felt so happy and full.


	45. And In the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, all right  
> Are you going to be in my dreams  
> Tonight?
> 
> And in the end  
> The love you take  
> Is equal to the love  
> You make

Marisol smiled as she looked around the dining room table, happier than she'd been in years. Her entire family, along with her best friend Donna, were all here for Melody's first birthday. The only thing missing was Paul. At least Melody was too young to remember her father couldn’t be here on her first birthday.

Paul had already visited California twice since they’d reconnected in February, and Marisol and Melody had returned twice to London. They had seen each other every two weeks and their relationship had never been better, but now they were gearing up for a rough summer. Next week the Beatles would begin another massive world tour. Three months on the road with barely any time off.

"There's one more present for the two of you, dear," Marisol's mother said. "Jack, bring in your daughter's early birthday gift."

"The big one?"

Her mother arched a brow and pointed at the doorway to the living room. "You know the one."

"Is it a horse?" Lucy asked, her face brightening.

"Lord, I hope not," Mrs. Hemingway said. "We've trotted down that road enough times already."

"I want a horse for my birthday,” Lucy said, clapping her hands.

“Our birthday,” Sophie said. “Two horses.”

Marisol smiled innocently at Nick and Margo in turn. "If your parents really love you maybe they'll let you have all three horses out in the barn for your birthday."

Lucy clapped and squealed. "Really daddy?"

"You are the devil's child," Margo said to her sister, taking a swig of wine.

"I resent that remark," their mother said.

"That's not happening, Luce," Nick said with a frown. "Maybe when you're older."

"Keep working on them," Marisol stage whispered to her niece. "And get your sister to nag at them too. That's how we always got what we wanted."

"Nice," Margo said. "I'll remember this in a few years when Melody is their age."

Marisol's father returned with a large, flat, square package wrapped in brown paper. It was clearly some sort of artwork. He laid it in the middle of the table in front of Marisol.

"Oh my goodness, what is this?" Marisol reached for the package.

"Just a minute, Jack.” Her mother reached over and stopped Marisol's hand. "This isn't the one. I meant the BIGGER gift. The one for both Marisol and the baby."

“What?” Marisol eyed her mother. “If you guys got Melody a horse, I swear I'll--"

Mrs. Hemingway scoffed. "I certainly didn't get either of you some sort of animal I'll end up caring for in my old age."

Mr. Hemingway stood by the door. "Now which gift are you talking about, Laura?"

"Oh go on, Jack, stop acting silly and get it."

Marisol's father gave her a wink and left the room.

One-year-old Melody stared after her grandfather, crestfallen. Any time her beloved Papa left the room she looked as though her heart would break. She had the most expressive brown eyes. And those perfect dark eyebrows. She looked more like her daddy every minute. Marisol watched her daughter, her heart filling with pride.

Doors opened and closed, conversation around the table rose and fell, and suddenly Melody’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. A wide grin showcased four tiny white teeth. "Dada da da da!" Melody said, squealing with glee.

“See, Papa came back, didn’t he birthday girl?” Marisol moved Melody’s sip cup out of the way before it ended up on the floor with all of the wrapping paper and bows.

Melody was trying to launch herself out of the high chair. She was certainly getting attached to her Papa.

Footsteps sounded behind her and hands settled on her shoulders, just as Marisol heard a low, familiar Scouse voice in her ear. "'Ello, Beauty. Sorry I'm late."

"Oh my god!" She leaped out of the chair, practically turning it over in her haste to be in Paul's arms. "You...you...how did you…?”

Paul was standing there, looking gorgeous, in her dining room. Her heart pounded, and her grin was from ear to ear. Now the day truly qualified as the happiest of her life.

They hugged, then they kissed, and then Paul let Marisol go and pulled Melody out of her high chair so they could coo at each other.

"Who's daddy's girl?"

"Da da da da!"

"Who's a big birthday girl?"

"Aeeeeee!" Melody squealed while Paul covered her face with kisses.

Marisol looked around the table, unable to stop smiling. “Did everyone know he was coming?”

“Not me,” Donna said, a sour look on her face.

“I keeped the secret!” Lucy shouted.

“Kept the secret,” Mrs. Hemingway said. “Indoor voice, please.”

“You are such a good girl!” Marisol said, hugging her niece.

Sophie pressed her tiny hands against the brown paper package on the table. “Open it!”

Marisol peeled off the brown paper wrapping. It was indeed a painting, face down on the table. Donna stood and helped turn the painting right side up.

Marisol’s hands flew to her mouth and her eyes instantly filled with tears. "It's Grandma Bellamy's garden!"

It was a beautifully rendered oil painting of her grandma's back garden. The lavender bushes, rows of geraniums, the fruit trees lining the curving path that led to the creek and the weeping willow tree that Marisol had played under every summer of her childhood.

"There's my bench!" Marisol cried, not believing her eyes.

"You dragged it under there yourself back in '55 when you were ten years old, if I recall correctly,” Paul said.

"You remembered!”

"Are you crying because you're happy?" Sophie asked with a worried frown.

Marisol gave her niece a squeeze. "Yes, sweetie. So happy.”

She looked back at the painting. “I love it. So much.”

"You said Melody wouldn't ever see that tree. Now she will,” Paul said quietly.

"This is from you?” Marisol stared at him, her mouth open with surprise.

“Your boy there had it commissioned.” Marisol’s father hooked a thumb at Paul.

"Your parents helped, a lot,” Paul said.

"This is truly the best birthday present since Jet.” Marisol wiped at her eyes. _This day._

"I helped too," Sophie said. "I never told."

"You are a wonderful secret keeper."

"Me too," Lucy said.

"You too."

"Thank you Mom, Dad." She looked at Paul. "Thank you," she said, wrapping an arm around his neck and kissing his cheek.

She stood back, smiling from Paul to their baby. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispered.

Shifting Melody to one side, Paul made a show of patting his pockets. "Wait, wait. There may be something else in here." He pulled out a tiny box wrapped in robin's egg blue paper and handed it to Melody, who immediately brought it to her mouth.

"Put Melody back in the high chair, Paul," said Mrs. Hemingway. "We're having cake."

"Yes, Grandma," Paul said.

Mrs. Hemingway arched a brow.

"That's not Grandma, that's Mimi," Lucy said.

"She prefers Mimi," Margo explained, "because Grandma sounds like...somebody's grandmother."

"I hope I live long enough to hear you called Grandma and see how you like it,” Mrs. Hemingway said.

"Is this from Tiffany's, Paul?" When Melody was back in the high chair, Marisol extricated the box from her daughter’s mouth and put it on the tray in front of her. "You'll spoil her rotten."

"That's all right," Paul said matter-of-factly. "Your parents spoiled you rotten and look at you now."

She gave him a shove and he caught her arms, laughing.

Sophie was beside the high chair, helping Melody unwrap her gift. Inside the Tiffany's box was a delicate gold chain holding a tiny gold heart engraved with the letter M. "M is for Melody," Sophie announced.

"And McCartney," Paul added.

Melody was more interested in the box. Sophie held up the necklace. "What's that say?"

Marisol examined the back of the heart. "Daddy's little girl," she read, and turned to Paul with a huge grin. "So sweet. I love that you spoiled her."

Paul patted his pockets again. "Oh, I almost forgot." He fumbled in his pocket a moment and pulled out a second tiny blue box and handed it to Marisol. "For the mommy of the birthday girl, who has a birthday coming up herself, if I'm not mistaken."

Marisol's hand flew to her mouth to cover her gasp. Her eyes moved back and forth between Paul’s face and the ring box. "Paul. This isn't...you didn't--"

He quickly cut her off. "It's not what you think," he said, hastily opening the box to reveal a gold key.

Across the room, Marcus snickered. “You thought it was an engagement ring, didn’t you Herman?”

“Shut up, jack leg.” Marisol turned her back on her brother.

Paul pulled out the key and flipped her hand over. His fingers seemed to shake a little as he placed the key in her palm.

"This is the key to a beautiful little country cottage in Sussex, halfway between London and the seashore, with a lovely willow tree in the back garden that our daughter will love to play under."

Marisol felt lightheaded. She looked around at her family, at the huge grins, at the shock on Donna’s face. She glanced at the painting of her grandmother's house and back at Paul, afraid to believe what it sounded like he was saying.

Her father filled in the blanks. "We told you how your grandmother's house sold the first day it was on the market." He nodded his head at Paul. "You're looking at the new owner."

"Actually, your daughter is the new owner," Paul corrected him. “She holds the key.”

Marisol’s mouth opened in shock. New tears filled her eyes. She looked quickly at Sophie. "Happy tears!" she said, and wrapped her arms around Paul's neck. "I love you," she whispered. “So much.”

Behind them, Melody squealed, wanting to be part of the hug.

Paul pulled away, an anxious smile on his face. “Your family has been a huge help in letting me surprise you. Are you happy?"

"Oh my god, yes, so happy!"

She felt Lucy beside her and dropped a hand to her head. "Thank you everybody. This is…I am so shocked…”

"Good," Paul said, nodding. He gave an anxious little cough and rolled his shoulders before continuing. "Because I put a lot of thought into what a one-year-old baby girl would most want for her birthday, and what I came up with was...a house in the English countryside with _both_ of her parents." He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a diamond ring, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Oh hell no," Donna moaned, dropping her head onto the table.

"Language!" Mrs. Hemingway warned.

"Oh my god," Marisol said, staring at the ring. She was frozen, unable to move.

Paul smiled down at her, his eyes misty. "It may seem a bit fast, but I knew from the first minute I saw you almost three years ago that I wanted you in my life, and I don't want to say goodbye to you. Ever again."

Marisol's hands flew to her face. There was no hiding the sob this time, or the tears. "You're killing me," she managed to say, before flinging herself into Paul's arms.

"Happy tears!" Sophie yelled, grabbing Lucy's hands and twirling around the room.

Paul leaned back to study her face. "Will you marry me, and end all these goodbyes?"

His beautiful face was blurry through her tears. ”Of course I will,” Marisol said on a sob.

They parted, both of their hands shaking as Paul slid the diamond solitaire onto Marisol’s finger.

“It's about time," Margo said. She pushed her way between the couple, practically elbowing Marisol out of the way. “Let me be the first to hug my new favorite brother-in-law.” She wrapped her arms around Paul’s neck and swayed with him for much longer than Marisol thought necessary. Paul was looking a little flushed by the time Marisol grabbed a hunk of her sister’s hair and pulled.

“Ow! Relax! I’m just welcoming him into the family!”

“Have some more wine, Gogo,” Marisol muttered, wiping at her tears.

Everyone was suddenly crowding around the couple, offering congratulations and congratulating themselves on how well they’d all kept Paul a secret.

Nick hovered at the edge of the crowd, snapping away with his new Nikon. Marisol’s father uncorked a bottle of the family’s finest reserve Sauvignon Blanc and glasses were passed around, followed by plates of birthday cake.

Marisol turned to see Donna standing in the corner, tears glistening in her big blue eyes. She immediately went to her. “I’m so selfish,” Donna moaned. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I know, girlfriend, I know,” Marisol said, pulling Donna in for a hug. “You’ll visit though. You’ll stay as long as you want. All summer even.” She held on to her best friend, trying to think of what would make their separation bearable. “We’ll find you a British lover.”

“Yuck.” Donna sniffed. “Maybe a French lover…”

“That’s it!” Marisol smoothed Donna’s hair and smiled through her tears. “France is so close! You won’t believe how close it is—“

“I can read a map, dingbat.”

Laughing, Marisol hugged her tighter. “You’ll come visit and we’ll do Paris.”

Donna pulled away. “Pinky swear?”

Marisol nodded solemnly and they hooked pinkies.

“He’s what you want, and I’m happy for you,” Donna said.

“We’ll always have Paris,” Marisol told her. “Don’t you dare forget me.”

“That’s not going to be possible. Honey, your face is going to be everywhere.”

The thought hit Marisol like a punch to the stomach. Her life was about to get very, very loud.

She looked around for Paul. He was trapped by her father, who was saying something about fishing and Idaho. Over her father’s shoulder, they locked eyes and Paul gave her a little wink.

Oh, but he was worth it. Being with Paul, finally, was worth everything they’d gone through in the past and everything they would go through in the future, together.

 

Hours later, when Paul and Marisol were able to get away, she tossed him the keys to her father’s beloved Thunderbird Convertible. They sat in the driveway for ten minutes while Paul raised and lowered the roof, marveling at all the parts required to make the roof automatically open and tuck itself into the trunk.

“A technical wonder of American engineering,” he enthused.

“It’s kind of a nightmare,” Marisol said. “Always breaking down.”

They drove up the Bohemian Highway, through towering redwoods, serene pastures, rocky ravines and tiny scenic hamlets. With the top down, they blasted music from the radio. They cheered madly when they heard the Beatles brand new release, _Paperback Writer._ They laughed and pumped their fists and sang along with the Beach Boys: “and she’ll have fun fun fun till her daddy takes the T-bird away…”

“God, I’m living inside an American pop song right now!” Paul yelled.

“Right side of the road!” Marisol shrieked, pointing at a pick up truck coming directly at them.

They turned the volume down when they reached the village, and Marisol pointed out the historic home where Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire filmed Holiday Inn. Paul waited in the car with a San Francisco Giants baseball cap pulled low on his brow, fiddling with the automatic steering wheel, while Marisol dashed into a bakery for sour dough bread and locally made cheese.

Near a scenic bridge they parked and walked along the Russian River until they found the perfect spot to sit in the grass with their picnic, swigging from a bottle of wine, holding hands and making plans.

Marisol leaned her back against an oak tree with Paul’s head in her lap, unable to stop looking at the shiny diamond on her left hand. She was halfway convinced that she would wake up soon, with a smile on her face, from this very lovely dream that couldn’t possibly be her life.

“We’ve been somehow flying under the radar, but we’ll have to make an announcement to the press soon, and then, look out. You’ll be hounded by reporters,” Paul said, adjusting the brim of his cap so he could look up at her.

She nodded. “My father will take care of them.”

Paul laughed. “American rifle power. Maybe he should come back to London with us.”

He saw her looking at the ring and took her hand and kissed it. “I want us to be married as soon as possible. I want to adopt Melody. As soon as this tour ends.”

She groaned. “The tour.”

“Yeah.” He was quiet for a moment, then he sighed. “Everyone’s fed up. George hates to fly, John says we’ve sold out. No one can hear the music anyway. We’re not even motivated to rehearse. We’d all rather be in the studio, creating music. Performing it, for us, is getting to be impossible.”

“But you’ll always have to tour, won’t you?” Marisol was trying to imagine what it would be like next summer and all the other summers, alone in London, waiting for him and worrying about him.

“I dunno, we’ll see. Depends on if the fans will still buy our records, I suppose.” He untucked her blouse from her shorts and kissed her stomach, making her giggle. Making her mind wander to the night ahead. Making her want to groan.

“I love performing,” he continued. “I still get the same rush. But the others are fed up with the craziness. George thinks we’ll all be killed.”

Marisol stared down at him wordlessly. She rarely considered how dangerous it was, the constant flying, the racing around in limousines or jammed in the back of bread trucks, the threats from deranged fans.

“The final show is in San Francisco, and then you can come to England.” He lifted his head and sat up, removing the cap and scratching the back of his head. “I found some land a mile from your grandmother’s house in Sussex. There’s a barn and pastures. We can bring your horses over.”

She framed his face with her hands, thrilled with the news. “Are you serious? We can really do that?”

He smiled, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “Of course. The horses, the dogs. And whatever or whoever else you think you need.”

“I don’t need anyone else,” Marisol said, leaning in and kissing his perfect lips that tasted of wine.

 

Back in the car, they joined another highway heading west as far as they could drive. They held hands while they hiked the rugged Northern California coastline. Just past Tomales Bay they sat at the edge of a cliff with their legs hanging over the side. “You drove us across the San Andreas Fault,” Marisol told him. “We're on a different tectonic plate than the rest of North America, the same tectonic plate as Hawaii.”

He squinted out at the endless expanse of dark blue ocean, sparkling under a cloudless, azure sky. “So if we have a major earthquake right now, you and I will just drift away.”

She smiled at him. He looked utterly adorable in his American baseball cap. “I wouldn’t mind. As long as we could take Melody.” She leaned over and kissed that spot behind his ear that always made him flinch like she was tickling him. As they watched the sun set over the Pacific, Paul told her he’d watched the sun rise over the Atlantic from his airplane window that morning.

“You must be exhausted. But I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Pure adrenaline, baby. But I wouldn’t have missed this day.”

The house was quiet and dark when they got back. They stood in Melody’s room for a few minutes, watching her sleeping. Paul rested his hand on her back, smiling down at her until Marisol pulled him away.

“Where am I sleeping?” he whispered.

“My room, of course. You’re my fiance. And I think my parents figured out a long time ago that we’re doing it.”

“Thank god,” Paul said. “Because I don’t know when I’ll get to wake up with you again.”

They brushed their teeth side by side. Paul had brought a small duffel bag with him, and it gave Marisol an idea.

“I’m going to rinse off real quick,” she said.

Paul nodded and stretched and stepped into her bedroom.

Marisol turned on the shower, and as the water warmed up, she reached in her purse and took out a packet of photographs. She smiled when she found the one she wanted. Her hair was a mess in the photo, as usual, and it looked like she was holding a mini female version of Paul. Their daughter was mostly blocked by the record album she was clutching. Hopefully Paul would recognize it as the album he had given her on the day they met, almost three years ago. The day that changed both of their lives. She searched her bag for a pen and wrote on the back of the photograph:

**_You are the love of our lives. Come home soon. XO_ **

**_P.S. We liked the album._ **

Then she tucked the photograph in a side zippered pocket of Paul’s duffel bag, hoping he wouldn’t notice it until he was off in a hotel room somewhere on the other side of the world, feeling maybe a bit homesick and missing his fiancee and baby daughter.

Still smiling, she stepped into the bathtub and took the quickest shower on record. She dried off equally fast and practically sprinted into her bedroom.

 _Oh my god_. Paul was naked in her bedroom. _In her bed._ The bed she had lain in as a little girl, dreaming of a mysterious brown-eyed boy in her future who would dream with her and scheme with her and always love her.

“About bloody time.” Paul watched her drop the towel and pull her damp hair into a high pony tail. His eyes moved down her face, her neck, pausing at her breasts.

“Do you sleep naked when you’re home?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

“With you I do.”

Her stomach tightened from the way he was watching her. She pulled back the sheet and stared at him, biting her lower lip at the wonder of it. He was going to be all hers. No other girl would see this body, hear that voice whispering her ear, lick that ticklish spot behind his ear. It was almost too much to believe. And worth every goodbye and every tear.

He held her hips as she climbed over him. “Mind your knee."

She laughed as he eased her down on the other side of the bed. “I’m not going to hurt your family jewels.”

“They’ll be your jewels soon,” he said, reading her mind yet again. He reached over a hand to cup her breast. “I can’t believe I’m going to come home every night and find you in my bed. I’ll get bedtime Marisol and sleepy morning Marisol and damp-just-from-the-shower Marisol—“

“—and cranky pants, crying PMS Marisol,” she warned.

His thumb slid across her nipple. “We’ll muddle through somehow. Right now, I just want to be the first to make love to my fiancee. And the last.”

Warmth flooded her body, and she leaned in to his kiss. Their lips locked as he rolled on top of her, settling between her legs. She closed her eyes, barely able to focus any longer on the conversation. He was so warm, so rigid. He felt so right.

“I love you, Marisol Rose Hemingway McCartney,” he whispered against her lips.

Her eyes flew open.

_No one else will hear him say I love you._

“I love you too, James Paul McCartney. You are the love of my life.”

His eyes met hers, and his smile grew. “Finally.”

 

Number of times Paul McCartney had told her he loved her using her soon to be married name: 1…and that was just the beginning.

 

 

(fade to black)

 

THE END

 

(for now)


End file.
